


Fathers and Sons

by lizimajig, thinkatory



Series: Fathers and Sons [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Aurors, Backstory, Character Death, Comfort/Angst, Crushes, Death Eaters, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Interhouse Friendships, MWPP Era, Ministry of Magic, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Original Character(s), Plotty, Politics, Remus Lupin's Mum is a MILF, Werewolf Politics, Werewolves, Wizarding World, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 268,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1354414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizimajig/pseuds/lizimajig, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A not so brief history of the distinct werewolf factions, from Remus Lupin to Fenrir Greyback to the many other werewolves living in wizarding Britain: their plans, their allies, and their enemies, over the course of the First War Against Voldemort. COMPLETE, will be posted in its entirety by May.</p><p>In the 1970s, Voldemort terrorized wizarding Britain. He had some help, culled from the ranks of so-called halfbreeds: werewolves. Fenrir Greyback used the Dark Lord’s might, even as he used Fenrir, to achieve his own ends and build a pack with numbers so great they could conquer wizards. In the middle is Remus Lupin, torn between destroying one society and upholding another; the Longbottoms, Aurors in the political machine of Magical Law Enforcement and the Ministry at large and members of the Order of the Phoenix; and the Curentons, a family of activists who have suffered at Fenrir’s hands and continue their work even as they are rebuilding their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before a Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is a complete fic, will be updated as we find time to.
> 
> We start before the First Wizarding War, in a chapter that lays the foundation of our story; we'll get to the MWPP-era portion next chapter and stay there for the rest of the fic. 
> 
> Note: we have decided to let this fic stand as written before Remus's Pottermore biography was released, and the backstory and names revealed about Remus's parents and the motivation Fenrir Greyback had to turn Remus into a werewolf. Everything after is canon-compliant.
> 
> Let us know what you think! :)

_Once a month, at the full moon, the otherwise sane and normal wizard or Muggle afflicted transforms into a murderous beast. Almost uniquely among fantastic creatures, the werewolf actively seeks humans in preference to any other kind of prey._  Newt Scamander,  _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,_  35th edition, 1963.  
  
  
 _July 1916_  
In the summer of 1916, the odds were against it, but fifteen-year-old Slytherin Thelonious Jugson looked a werewolf in the face. It changed his life.  
  
It was a rarity for a good pureblood to even see a werewolf. The savages were not allowed to work with wizards, and were never considered part of decent society, or even society at large. They were not often seen in cities, hiding instead off in the countryside in... decrepit huts or caves, for all the wizarding community knew.  
  
So, Thelonious originally hesitated in his confident gait to laugh at the gaunt, filthy man on the outskirts of the Alley, without a clue what he was approaching. How could he resist? The man's clothes were ridiculous, torn, and disgusting, his hair long and in his face. He was just beginning a sneer when the creature seemed to sense his gaze and stare past his dirty hair down at him, freezing Thelonious where he stood in mixed curiosity and fear.  
  
Thelonious first suspected him to be a Squib or a Mudblood, because of course neither of those could afford decent clothing. Then he saw the long, claw-like fingernails, and though the stories told to good pureblood children held both Squibs and Mudbloods to be monstrous figures, real monstrosities such as this thing seemed unreasonable.  
  
It -- it couldn't be a man, it was an it -- let its lip curl into a sneer, and Thelonious jerked back as something moved behind its eyes. It was as though a second presence had possessed its body.  
  
"Keep walkin', wizard," it growled, and Thelonious forced himself to breathe, to move, to live as he once had.  
  
The last, he found, was impossible.  
  
He had seen his first werewolf. It was a savage, disgusting creature; he couldn't deny tradition that part. However, the  _thing,_  the presence flickering behind its eyes touched on something deep inside Thelonious that he had never felt before. He bought book after book, trying to learn about these wayward beasts, discovering that what little was known wasn't really so horrifying. Wizarding law regarding them was another story.  
  
By 1917, Thelonious Jugson was a full-fledged werewolf scholar, much to the horror of his family. They tried to ignore it, he  _was_  the oldest son, but murmurs of werewolves arose at every party, always with the same cautious, disdainful, even concerned tint to the word... werewolves. Nonetheless, he tried to explain, usually at an unwanted length.  
  
"No, no, look," Thelonious urged his sister Claudia, waving a book in protest. "They're classified as Beasts and I can understand why. However, they  _are_ in human form for the majority of the time, and if they're classified as Beasts they are not allowed to marry wizards, to cohabitate with them, even to work for them. Claudia -- it's  _unfair._  We both have forms of magic, werewolves and wizards, and there's even some that Muggle werewolves supposedly can use -- "  
  
Claudia reacted, really reacted, for the first time in a full  _year_  of this nonsense. He'd gone too far. She raised her head and turned her scandalised pink face to him. "So now you're a blood traitor as well as a madman?" she sneered.  
  
Infuriated, spurned, and frustrated, Thelonious slammed his book down on the table and left her. It was the last time he saw her, or any other relatives; he did not return home after his sixth year. He allowed himself to be disowned without even responding to the owl informing him of it, choosing to take what money he had already and simply wait with breathless dreaming for the end of Hogwarts.  
  
He miserably failed his N.E.W.T.s, choosing instead to study what little was said about the most common locations of werewolf packs. He resorted to scouring the Welsh countryside by July 1919, and, to his elation, actually found a small pack in the hills. He sank to his knees before the werewolf they all called "Father" and ignored the stares of surprise and derision from the werewolves. "Let me join you," he begged.  
  
It was the only way he could understand. He needed to understand.  
  
It was two weeks until the full moon, so Thelonious was forced to wait to become one of them. He lived with them in the abandoned shack they'd claimed, watching them scrabble with each other in playfights and fawn over the Father (a tall, old werewolf named Marius). All the current werewolves in this pack were Muggles, and because he was a wizard, he was the first on which pack blood magic would be used. This would give him power and status, Marius said, over other werewolves. At this news, he clung to Father Marius's clothing, trying desperately not to cry from gratitude.  
  
The full moon came after an eternity of waiting. Thelonious watched it rise from the window of the room in which he was locked with Father Marius. He heard the howls from the other room where the pack held itself. Father Marius did not howl, from where he sat, hunched, staring at Thelonious. Thelonious was not brave enough to resist glancing at the locked door in hopes of an escape.  
  
"Don't be frightened, Thelonious," Marius rasped, already beginning to jerk and shake with the beginning of transformation. "I have control."  
  
Nonetheless Thelonious scrambled for the door. He wanted this, he wanted the sheer power he saw rippling through his Father's muscles as the wolf came through, he wanted to feel the wolf behind his eyes, but he collapsed on the doorknob and scrabbled at the door. When Father Marius’s teeth sank into Thelonious’s side, the boy stopped resisting, and dropped to the floor. “Father,” he whispered, as the wolf, and the man behind its eyes, stared down at him with something that resembled love.  
  
The scars could not be healed, Thelonious was told the next day, so he lay in agony, delirious and exhausted for a few days. Everything changed when he awoke on the third day. Everything changed for a third time not three days after his infection. Thelonious awoke, but he ... was not Thelonious. Why had he called himself that? Confused, terrified, he writhed painfully on the floor, crying, “Father, Father!” while tearing at the magical bond the two of them had.  
  
Father Marius took his time responding, allowing Thelonious a moment to calm himself before entering the room. “Calm, Greyback,” he said. “Your wolf has been named. You are no longer a wizard, and your wolf will not stand to be called one.”  
  
Greyback.  _Yes._  Earlier dreams of being someone, some _thing_  else before pain tore through his wounds and Marius’s voice had whispered, “Wolf, I name you Greyback; man, you are no more.” He had always been Greyback, he had always been the wolf within a man’s body. The wolf, a second presence in his mind, sensed a kinship with Father Marius, recognized the other wolves, and regarded his human self with disdain. This was the main strength of the werewolf, the "wolf," the sighting of which had drawn Thelonious into this from the start. It was easier to pacify the wolf than to resist it in favor of one’s humanity. Raw meat satisfied the wolf, though it took him time to recover from the illness it caused his human body.  
  
Greyback healed, and everything was new to him, as though he was newly born. He became quite fond of his pack, and raw meat. He was blissfully happy, until painful fragments of his past returned, through dreams. As it unfolded, he withdrew into his Father’s arms.  _Savages,_  they dared say? Savages, the  _wolves,_  when the wizards discriminated, loathed and cast out anything unlike them --  _savages_? The outrage ripped at Greyback’s nerves like an angry wolf at his prison door, but Father Marius kept him in line. He lived, he learned, and he grew to love his pack.  
  
When Marius died, the pack did not mourn. Pack was universal, not individual; nothing was lost because man was mortal but pack was eternal. They simply turned to Greyback, for the pack was his.  
  


~*~

  
  
_July 1964_  
  
Alexander Lupin usually prided himself on the highest degree of preparedness, and today was no different. He checked and rechecked his parchment of details for the press conference he was covering. More details on the ongoing tale of the recently introduced Ban on Experimental Breeding -- in fact, that was most of the release, but there were some things about some new untradeable goods and an odd bit about the Werewolf Registry and lost funding. All business as usual.  
  
Eight AM sharp he picked up the parchment and left the office for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’ small briefing room. It was usually only about half occupied since it was a small, Departmental briefing room. The  _Prophet_  sent two of their lesser reporters, usually someone who was just happy to be out of the office and no longer fetching a higher up's coffee. An old wizard who insisted he be called George (even though Alexander knew his name was Robert) came from the WWN's news portion. There was the usual collection of reporters from specialty press and the occasional member of the foreign press.   
  
He strode into the room and behind the podium. "Good morning," he greeted them, and was greeted in return. "To start with the news today, we have more debate within the Wizengamot about the proposed Ban on Experimental Breeding, proposed by Newt Scamander, S-C-A-M-A-N-D-E-R for those of you who still haven’t got it..."  
  
Alexander gave his briefing, watching two eager girls who looked maybe three years out of Hogwarts scribbling on their parchments. George-Robert adjusted dials on his recording device, and a witch in a rather large hat was calmly sipped her tea and listened attentively. He came to his end finally, after covering all the details. "I'll now open up the floor for a few questions," he finished, waiting for hands of one of the two girls in front to fly in the air.  
  
One of the girls jumped at the opportunity. "Is it true that the werewolves are congregating in Wales, and does the Werewolf Registry have anything to say about this phenomenon?" she called, flashing a bright smile at Alexander.  
  
Oh, she was new. She was still smiling. "The Registry has noted a slight migration of wolves through their tracking charms," he answered. "It's hard to be precise on what the cause of this is, since there is minimal contact with the werewolves themselves, and it's highly doubtful they'd be willing to offer an opinion were it asked. Some believe it could be attributed to Owen Curenton opening the Den, in Pembrokeshire." He tried not to look like the idea disturbed him, but it was practically his backyard and he had a family to think of, for crying out loud.  
  
The other female reporter, clearly a competitor, cut off the first, looking almost bored as she seized the next question. "What is the Ministry's opinion on Owen Curenton's behavior as of late? Is there any intent to stop him and his activism?" The first reporter scribbled furiously on her parchment, glaring at the more experienced reporters as their quills flew easily across the parchment.  
  
Alexander's attention slid easily to the second. "Of course, officially the Ministry can't really do anything about Owen Curenton's activism, he has the right to an opinion the same as you or me, even if it does appear to be somewhat... misleading," he started.  
  
"I would caution that his particular brand of activism is dangerous, bringing a disregard for personal safety to a dangerous level as he lives within the mile of the Den with his family. We can't endorse something like that," he added, speech snowballing rapidly. "Bringing together werewolves in such an environment is like throwing two rabid cats into a sack. It's dangerous and no good is going to come from such an endeavour. It's frightening to think that a man who treats dangerous creatures with such lax behaviour is considered a leader in his field."  
  
The sound of scratching quills followed this statement instantly, and the first to finish copying it down waved his hand to quickly catch Lupin's attention. "So you're saying that the Department does  _not_  endorse Owen Curenton's approach to the treatment of werewolves as almost human beings?"  
  
"Of course not," Alexander answered over the murmurs that were now circulating around the room. "But we'd say the same about a man who settled himself in a nest of chimaeras - it's unsafe and generally advised against, a man's common sense should tell him that."  
  
"Well, if anything happens, at least he'll stop sending letters to the editor," one of the reporters said in a stage whisper off to the left, a few snorts of shocked laughter following.  
  
"If we were only so lucky," Alexander put in dryly, picking up his parchment off the podium. "That's all I have for you this morning, ladies and gentlemen, have a pleasant rest of the day," he added, before striding out of the room the same way he had come in.  
  
The reporters buzzed at the outrageous story that had just occurred in front of their very eyes. The photographers snapped their last pictures of Lupin's exit, and several hurried after their counterpart reporters. It was a race to the office, but all would display this as a near headline -- the indictment of Owen Curenton's cause by a Ministry official himself was newsworthy any day.  
  


~*~

  
  
In his deepest moments of childish grandeur, Fenrir looked at the Pack's house and considered it a castle, its weathered chimney a turret, the upper floor that was reserved for the full moon and Greyback's pacing and planning as the castle wall, and Greyback and Fenrir, father and son, as king and crown prince. Really, the pack's house was no better than the one he'd had in his now seemingly far-flung past, the house of his wizarding Father --  _Dad_ \-- the one who had locked away the son he'd called Jacob, freak, brat, burden, for three full moons until Fenrir had fled for his true home. This place, with his real Father, Greyback, castle or not, was home. It was where he was meant to be.   
  
At ten years old, he was the named heir of the Greyback pack, a sizable werewolf pack in Wales with one of the most well-learned and cunning Fathers one could hope for. In the two years he'd been a werewolf, Greyback's son, he had learned so much, learned and relearned, because truth only came through being part of pack.   
  
And this was his pack. His to belong to, and one day, his to rule.   
  
He reached along the tie from father to son in hopes of finding Greyback, greeting him, asking a question, but he was left to sulk alone in the main room of the house. The day after a full moon was a lazy one, with most too busy recovering from the previous night. They only had themselves to blame. They lacked control of themselves and their wolves.   
  
He supposed he couldn't blame the bastard unnamed werewolves, the Muggles, the women, for not being able to control themselves as well as he could. Even Laurel, the only werewolf he'd ever bit, his friend, was eager to learn, but like every bastard, she couldn't be blamed for her lack of control. They just couldn't understand pack.   
  
Still, it made the lazy day after a full moon even more boring, and his Father was nowhere to be found. With a scowl, he went to stalk the corridors of the house in hopes of finding something or someone to entertain him. After all, he was the first of the pack, no one could deny him.   
  
Werewolves slept, lounged, cringed and whimpered in every room he passed, and not a worthy thing was to be found until he came near the back of the house, where a muffled discussion was being held. He approached the closed door and listened as best he could, but all he heard was that a woman was speaking.   
  
Annoyed, he opened the door a crack.   
  
"... have to take this sort of thing seriously. If they attack Curenton, if they shut down the Den -- "   
  
"They won't shut down the Den," a teenage boy said, and Fenrir made a face at recognising the voice. Gabriel, Greyback's bastard first, and a waste of good food.   
  
"Curenton would fight it, but you have to understand, Gabe, the Ministry does what it wants, when it wants, especially with magical creatures like ourselves. It always has," an older man added.   
  
"That's not the point, James! The  _nerve,_ " the woman fumed, her voice rising as she kept speaking. "The nerve of Lupin to -- he compared us to a nest of chimaeras, we're just another set of mindless, useless beasts to him, aren't we -- "   
  
"Heather," James said sharply.   
  
"That's not my name and you bloody well know it, and you know I'm right!"   
  
"Alexander Lupin is nothing more than a typical wizard, a  _credit_  to his race," he replied after a moment of stony silence. "They look at us and see a pack of wild dogs. Why should we expect Ministry officials to think any differently than the average wizard?"   
  
"That doesn't mean he should be allowed to say it for everyone to hear, to treat us this way, to attack our only wizarding ally," Gabriel cut in. "Just because they all think so -- "   
  
" -- means someone has to say something," the woman retorted.   
  
"Trust me, Curenton will," James said with a snort.   
  
"Is that enough?" asked Gabriel rhetorically.   
  
"No," Fenrir said aloud, realising this only when the conversation ground to a halt and all three werewolves were staring at him in surprise. He stared back, and tilted his head, imperious, as he went on. "It's not enough."   
  
None of them seemed to know what to say to the heir of the pack, outspoken as they were behind closed doors, so Fenrir opened his mouth to speak again, to ask them more about this Alexander Lupin. An urgent, angry tug on the tie between Fenrir and his Father, however, forced him to abandon the conversation and bolt directly to Greyback's side -- only to find his Father a single corridor away.   
  
"Father," he began.  
  
"Fenrir, what have you been doing?" Greyback asked, his tone biting. "This isn't -- "   
  
"Why can't I walk around the entire pack house if it's going to be mine to rule someday?" Fenrir interrupted.   
  
Greyback lashed out at him over the tie, and once Fenrir seemed cowed, he went on. "It's not... comely to bother yourself with the affairs of bastards."   
  
Fenrir shook it off. "But Father, they were talking about something..."   
  
"Are you going to listen to the chattering of bastards when I'm dead and gone and this pack is yours to rule?" Greyback asked roughly.   
  
The pressure his Father pushed along their tie mixed with his own strong emotions about what he'd just heard made him have to swallow hard in order to speak. "No. But -- a wizard, his name was Alexander Lupin, he -- "   
  
The reaction was immediate enough to stop Fenrir's train of thought immediately; Greyback's face hardened into a wrinkled sneer at the mere mention of the name. "Fenrir, don't concern yourself. One day we will -- "   
  
"It's true?" His anger, his everpresent anger found root again, the wolf encouraging it, colour rising to his face. "He thinks we're animals, and he's an important wizard, and he said that to everyone?"   
  
"He called Curenton mad for opening the Den, involving himself with werewolves, and he called us unworthy, animals if you will," Greyback said stiffly. "However, this is a wizarding matter, not for our consideration..."   
  
" _Chimaeras._  He compared us to chimaeras," Fenrir protested. "He's wrong, we're better than chimaeras, than wizards -- we're smarter, united, stronger, we can show him -- it's not enough to just sit around here talking about it, Father, we have to do something!"   
  
Pain burst behind Fenrir's eyes as Greyback forced him to his knees with the power of their tie. "Alexander Lupin is one wizard," he barely heard over the blood rushing through his ears, "and one day we will show  _all of them._ "   
  
By the time Fenrir managed to pick himself up off of the floor, wincing yet, Greyback was gone. This was his chance.   
  
One day wasn't soon enough. That one day would come, he knew it, he had faith, but it wasn't soon enough if his Father was ready to give up on this fight. He half-ran to the room upstairs where Laurel lay tending her own wounds from the previous night, and stopped in the doorway.   
  
Laurel smiled the moment she saw him, her light hair lit brilliantly by the noontime sunlight pouring into the room, and pale against the blood on her clothes. He smiled back for a moment until the wolf reminded him with a nudge of his purpose, keeping him on task. "I need you," he said.   
  
"For what?" she asked. He sat next to her and took over dressing her wounds. She was so small, it was hard to believe she was nearly his age.   
  
"We're going to start something," he said, binding her bandages tightly enough to make her wince, though he took no notice. "We're going to do my Father's work."   
  
Laurel gazed up at him, approving, adoring, and nodded. "What can I do, Father?"   
  
"Whatever I tell you. We have to leave, soon."   
  
She nodded again, without hesitation, and they were out of the house and on their way to town within minutes.   
  


~*~

  
  
_August 1964_  
  
Young Fenrir had never overly liked Owen Curenton, even though he'd opened the Den a year previous to any werewolf who needed help. There was something about Curenton that reminded him of his wizarding father, back when he was Jacob Annelsey not two years previous, before Greyback saved him and named him Fenrir. It was confusing to the ten year old werewolf, though; both were men. Curenton wanted to help and create somewhere safe for werewolves, and Alexander Lupin jokingly insulted their race in the guise of insulting Curenton. How did that make sense?  
  
The little contact Fenrir had with the hated former race, men, led him to suspect that they may not have been as bad as his imagination tended to paint them. As it turned out, they were worse.   
  
Common sense, the man had said, to not live among the wolves. That was common sense? He compared them to animals, to dangerous creatures. As though wizards weren't? Greyback was right -- truth came from pack, and wizards lacked any sense of it at all.   
  
It was not difficult (loathed, but not difficult) for Laurel and Fenrir to pretend to be a normal young witch and wizard in order to get information. No one paid attention to someone who looked poor, nearly homeless. They spied, asked innocent questions, and finally watched Alexander Lupin lead around his young son.   
  
Lupin had a son, a young son. His poor young son, who would grow up to be just like his father, a weak, selfish, illogical wand-carrier without a sense of the truth at all. No. Fenrir could do something. He could do what his own Father had done for him.   
  
"We're going to save him, Laurel," he whispered to her on the third week. "And we're going to show Lupin just how wrong he is."   
  
"What do I do?" she whispered back, huddling close to him as they lingered outside of the Lupins' property.   
  
"We have a week. Just find a way to get close and make sure I can get in, all right?"   
  
Finally, twilight lit the Lupins' property, the little garden, as Fenrir crept across the lawn. He went to the window, and it was open. He silently thanked Laurel as he crawled in and went upstairs, stealthy and silent, knowing he had little time. He opened the door of a room with a childish drawing pinned beside the doorknob, and stared inside at the little boy within with a slight smile.  
  
 _I'm going to save you._  
  
The moon was rising... without delay, he approached the bed.   
  
John Lupin was young, but not stupid. He woke up alarmed to an older boy -- certainly not his age, but not quite old enough to be considered even a young adult -- hovering over him, one hand clamped firmly over his mouth and the other holding on to his arm tightly. Every instinct in his small body told him to struggle; his yelling was ineffective, and he began to kick with all his strength.   
  
His wolf was quiet, controlled, until it sensed the boy's fear, and Fenrir glanced to the window, suddenly panicked. "Stop it," he growled, yanking him roughly onto the floor. He pulled the boy to his feet and began to force him down the stairs. As the wolf began to bristle, Fenrir threw caution to the wind and released the Lupin boy's mouth, dragging him behind him in a run out of the door of his house.   
  
John winced and resisted every step of the way, but there was only so much of that he could do. If he'd been thinking straight he would have tried to grab on to the banister or an umbrella in the stand by the door. But by the time he was free to scream and then thought to do so, it was too late.   
  
His bare feet hit the wet grass, and he slipped but still moved. He was being dragged away from his bed, his parents, and any and all hope of rescue. "No! Stop!  _Please!_ " he begged instead, choking on sobs. "Put me back! Stop!"   
  
The terror struck Fenrir; he wasn't going to make it to the Den. He was going to transform soon and the boy was going to get free, and he would  _know_. His feet pounded the ground, his hackles raising -- he had to control the wolf, stem the transformation for just a few more minutes. The boy sobbed behind him, and both wolf and boy lost their temper, shoving the Lupin boy to the ground. "STOP CRYING," he demanded. "This is your Father's fault. You're going to be  _mine_  now. I'm  _helping_  you."   
  
Stunned and unable to move, John blinked up at him. Help him? His father's fault? What did his father do? What did it have to do with him?   
  
What was going to happen to him?   
  
He tried not to cry -- it was obvious that this boy intended to hurt him, but not kill him. He didn't want to try that. All he succeeded in doing was giving himself a case of the hiccups, punctuated by the sobs of a frightened child. "No - he couldn't have done it," he hiccupped. "You made a mistake!"   
  
"No," Fenrir said, flashing an unhappy grimace with a lot of teeth, "I didn't." He yanked him up to his feet again and marched towards the Den, already shuddering with the effort of caging in the wolf. He was one of the best at control, one of the most gifted, but this was a strange and very exciting circumstance for both Fenrir and the wolf. They barely stumbled into the Den when the wolf tore through Fenrir's skin, and he gave the boy a last shove into the nearest room, an office, slamming the door behind him.   
  
John went down to the floor and clenched his eyes closed. His hands flew to cover his head, and his breaths began to come in short gasps. He could hope and even pray but he was not going to be saved. His parents, his mother and his father -- he couldn't have done anything, his father was nice -- were far away. If he was lucky, it would be fast and over soon. His stomach began to drop with the hopelessness.   
  
It was a particularly bad transformation, even for Fenrir, who could control the wolf while in human form but couldn't keep it from feeding on his ever present rage. He sobbed into the carpeting as howls broke the silence from the upper rooms of the Den, and he howled in kind as fur flowed from his skin, the transformation beginning. Once completely wolf, Fenrir and the wolf lay eyes of similar hunger on the Lupin boy, approaching him.   
  
Why didn't he think of hiding?  _Why?_  If the little boy had known any curses worth saying, he would have used them. He looked up to see if there was still any hope of that, but that turned out to be a mistake. His eyes met the wolf's, and he literally shuddered. His entire body shook, and he mouthed  _no._    
  
The fear was palpable and almost intoxicating; the boy inside the wolf grinned as the wolf licked its chops and leaped upon the boy, jaws snapping at any flesh that would be supplied, clawing to get it closer.   
  
At first John screamed. His attempts at defending himself from the wolf were useless and each scratch burned like someone lit him on fire. The bite felt like an explosion of dynamite on his shoulder, and it rendered him completely senseless. There was the floor underneath him, the wolf over him, his head spinning, and then nothing else.   
  


~*~

  
  
Owen had a routine in general, varied on the morning after the full moon -- he got to the Den early to undo the lockdown. All it took was the charm on each door, but that took time. After unlocking the last door, he went down to his office -- the door was closed. He didn't remember closing it or locking it after he left the night before, but most of the time, that didn't necessarily mean a thing. He tried the knob, and pushed open the door.   
  
The sight that greeted him caused him to step back from his door as his hand flew to his mouth.   
  
A battered and exhausted Fenrir stirred at the sound of the door opening, head raising for a moment, but didn't come to entirely. The transformation had been too intense, and the wolf had truly sated its rage and hunger for Alexander Lupin on his son. The few waking moments he had earlier were occupied by pack magic he could not possibly practise and was forced to do entirely on instinct. His eyes were dull as he looked vaguely in Owen's direction, and then his head dropped onto the floor.   
  
Owen forced himself into his office and kneeled by the littler boy. He vaguely recognised him, there was something familiar about the shape of his nose. But the fact was that no matter who he was, he was laying on his office floor in pajamas, his shoulder torn apart and blood. The boy was still breathing, though, thank god. It was becoming pretty clear what happened -- but why? He was quickly becoming horrified with that train of thought.   
  
He made sure that the boy was breathing, and he touched Fenrir's shoulder. "Fenrir," he said. "What have you  _done?_  Who is he?"   
  
Waking required a great effort, as though mental weights clung to his every struggling thought. He blinked, a contented smile spreading across his lips as he looked at the boy across the room. Curenton wouldn't understand. None of them could. This was pack. "Remus," he said, and even the name thrummed with the power of the tie. "He's mine."   
  
Owen sat back on the floor with his head in his hands, while his head swam with thoughts. So much for creating a safe haven. And Fenrir -- had the boy had purposely... it was unfathomable. He willed his thoughts to calm themselves, but they refused. He looked up when footsteps approached.   
  
After not finding his son in any of the full moon rooms, Greyback stalked through the house that served as the Den, searching out either Fenrir or the activist who ran the place. He knocked on the door of Owen's office before entering. His gaze fell immediately to his fallen and bloody son. "Fenrir." All concern melted; there was a snarl in his voice and a yank along their tie that made Fenrir flinch with a yelp, eyes wide.   
  
Owen couldn't help but wince a little himself, but he tried not to appear shaken and Fenrir's bone chilling words played again in his brain.  _Remus... he's mine._  "They were here when I came in just now," he said weakly. "I don't know..." He let the sentence go. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he didn't know anything.   
  
Greyback ignored Owen for now. This was pack business, and no wizard needed to be involved. He strode purposefully to the quivering Fenrir and forced him to his feet with the tie of Father to son. "That is Alexander Lupin's son," he said harshly. "I have told you time and time again that this is not the time, Fenrir, we must wait, and you cannot  _make them understand_  by seizing their own children."   
  
Fenrir shook with a sob, tears beginning to stream from his eyes from both fear and confusion at his Father's anger. "He called us animals and they laughed at us! We're not animals, we're better than they are, you've always said, how could I let this boy -- "   
  
"Don't lie." Greyback's sharp tone bit into his ear and Fenrir whimpered again, head lowered when his Father seized him by the shoulder. "This was revenge. Not mercy. Revenge. You will atone for this."   
  
Owen had to tear his eyes away from Greyback and Fenrir just now. This was what -- it didn't matter now. He instead looked down at the boy -- Alexander Lupin's  _son._  It all fell into place now, in a terrifying way that he never would have thought any ten-year-old capable of. He moved carefully to pick him up off the floor, but there was simply no way to handle that shoulder carefully. He whimpered and tried to squirm away, but Owen held him carefully, soothing him with wordless sounds of comfort.   
  
Tears streamed down Fenrir's face as he knelt before his Father, and he quickly ran to the door when Greyback released him. As the pack leader turned away from him, Fenrir looked to Remus (once John) and managed a smile. He had at least managed to save someone from his own fate in the world of wizards.   
  
Greyback laid his hand on Owen's shoulder, looking down at the young boy as well. "The boy will return to his family," he said. "Fenrir will apologize, and I will make certain he doesn't act out like this again."   
  
Greyback's touch seemed to snap Owen out of his horrified stupor, and he carefully stood up; it wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do when one was cradling a child. He nodded at Greyback and said, "He should go home, now, and they can take care of him." This was one trip he was not looking forward to making, but it was one that he must.   
  
Greyback hesitated at this idea, returning one of their own to the wizards, especially a named werewolf -- however, Owen seemed set on this idea, and Fenrir's act was reprehensible in this specific situation. "Tell Lupin that he will receive an apology from the wolf responsible within the night. I must... speak to Fenrir in private, first. You understand, discipline of a child."   
  
"If he'll listen to me," Owen said dully. If he knew anything about Alexander Lupin, it was that Owen was not one of his favourite people, and their views didn't exactly cross paths. "But I will tell him that," he added, carefully readjusting Remus in his arms, mindful of his shoulder.   
  
"He's named," Greyback said, nodding towards the boy and more specifically towards his cursed wounds. "You understand the consequences of that?"   
  
Owen bit back a sharp reply about who should or shouldn't be understanding consequences here. Fenrir was Greyback's business, and as he'd just seen, he'd be dealing with him in time. "I do," he said, wondered if he really did, and decided that it didn't matter. "Lupin spoke harshly, but the words don't merit an attack on his son or losing him. The boy did nothing," he added firmly.   
  
Greyback gave him a stony stare, and with an equally cold tone, said, "I agree. But he is pack now. He won't be able to escape it,  _whoever_  his birth father happens to be. His Father is Fenrir." He turned away and went to leave.   
  
The boy -- Remus (what a terrible sense of humour Fenrir had) -- laid still and slack in Owen's arms, the only discernable movement coming from his small chest as it rose and fell with respiration. For a moment, it could have been his own son, Jeremy, in his arms. In the awful realization that hit him after, Owen wondered if he'd misheard the entire previous conversation, seen what he'd wanted to see -- or, rather, anything but what he didn't want to see. But when he looked back down at the boy he gently held, there were no dark curls or mischievous giggles. Jeremy was safe at home in his bed. There was a different boy in his arms, someone else's son, with sandy brown hair in a disturbed state of unconsciousness.   
  
Hoping desperately that he was doing the right thing -- a fool's hope, at best -- he walked right out of the Den to take Remus home.   
  


~*~

  
  
Despite the August day, Alexander lit a fire in the fireplace, simply because it marginally less depressing and pathetic than staring at an empty grate. From the moment they heard John's little boy screams and their front door shut, he and Nichole had not slept, wandered the house restlessly, and fretted, unable to compel MLES to do anything about it until his son had been missing twenty-four hours. Standard, they said. Twenty-four hours was twenty-three hours and fifty minutes too long in his opinion.   
  
When he saw Curenton coming up their lane with John in his arms, his heart literally skipped several beats. They met him seconds later, and for a moment their fears were suspended -- but only for a moment. Curenton told them what happened after handing off John --  _Remus_  -- to Nichole. His son was taken from his bed and bitten, practically torn apart for Alexander's offense and now he didn't even have so much as his own name anymore. By the time the man had used the word "named" Alexander wasn't listening anymore and made him leave. Owen told him the offending wolf would be there before the night was out to apologize, and then left.   
  
Nichole wanted to take him to a hospital -- if not the wizarding one, a Muggle one. It was understandable, but he couldn't. He fixed the wounds himself the best that he could and perhaps that wasn't the best -- but his wife made him promise to let her take him to a Muggle hospital if it got worse. He sat and hoped that it would only get better.   
  
They were upstairs now. Their son was awake, but not very oriented, and Nichole was staying with him. She laid him down in the very bed that he'd been torn from and talked to him in soothing tones that only mothers have. Alexander was barely able to bring himself to look at John. Remus. Remus, Remus, Remus; something told him that he was going to eternally think John when he looked at his son.   
  
He wearily ran a hand over his face, trying not to think so much. They had him back, and that was all that he could bring himself to think about right now. He couldn't think about how this had happened because of something he'd just said off the top of his head, or how it had crushed every hope he'd had for his son or simply what it was just going to be like for him in the world. So he sat and stared at the fire.   
  
Once the discipline was finished, Greyback yanked Fenrir out of the Den and they silently walked to town. This was just another lesson, Fenrir knew, but not only in who ruled the pack, but how to control Remus, his newly named son, with the tie. It was a comforting thought in his Father's silence, anyway.   
  
Greyback silenced Fenrir's wolf and controlled his own as they approached the house of Alexander Lupin, finally bringing himself to knock on the door.  
  
Something gripped Alexander's stomach, and icy cold dread settled there like lead. But all the same, he rose from the chair and went to the front door. He set his jaw when he saw them through the screen door -- it had to be the werewolf Curenton mentioned. He couldn't bring himself to be overly courteous under the circumstances, and said, "Yes?"   
  
Greyback opened his mouth to greet him, but Fenrir was the first to speak. "Where is he?" the boy demanded. He had every right to see his son.   
  
Fenrir immediately felt Greyback grip his shoulder, and he looked up at his Father with a blank expression. Greyback didn't look at him, instead regarding Lupin with painfully upheld diplomacy. "This is the werewolf who bit your son. His name is Fenrir. Your son is now a member of our pack. Do with that what you will, even if you deny him community he will seek it out on his own."   
  
For a very brief moment, Alexander felt like laughing. The feeling quickly faded, but maybe that would show him to presume. The grief and overwhelming anger came back with a vengeance, and he looked between the two. "My son is a child, he's not going anywhere. My family has nothing more to say to either of you." Nothing that he would be willing to repeat in front of a child, anyway, no matter what his crimes were.   
  
Fenrir pushed Greyback away from him, stepping forward towards Lupin. "You can't keep him, he's  _mine,_ " the boy insisted. "I named him, he -- " As he felt Greyback pull on the tie, Fenrir turned to his Father. "You saved me, let me save him, don't make me leave him here with these wizards, you  _know_ what they do!"   
  
Greyback grabbed his son by the shoulders and shoved him away from the door. He then turned his gaze to Lupin, the wolf examining his face as well. "Perhaps now you will choose your words more carefully."   
  
"YOU'LL SEE NOW, LUPIN," Fenrir called from where he had stumbled onto the ground, ego more bruised than anything else. "NOW YOU'LL UNDERSTAND!"   
  
"Fenrir, quiet," Greyback snapped, and forced Fenrir to his feet and a quick pace towards the Den. He turned back to Alexander. "Treat our son well. He will be back to join us. You don't understand now but you will, very soon."   
  
" _My_  son will be safe here at home," Alexander replied with scathing calmness, showing no signs of backing down. "Now go," he added in the same tone, his hand on his wand in his pocket. Naming, sons, it was all nonsense to him and his son wasn't going to have any part of it as long as he had anything to say about it.   
  
Greyback's lip curled in a sneer. How typical. He said nothing more, simply gave the man a curt nod and followed in Fenrir's wake. The boy had a point after all. Even if the means had been too extreme, the lesson had been taught. Now they had only to see the results, good or bad.   
  
Alexander watched them only a second longer before slamming the door shut and twisting the deadbolt as well as locking it with a charm. He leaned his forehead on the smooth wood for a moment, clenching his jaw in anger. He turned to see his wife at the top of the steps, staring back down at him. "He's asleep," Nichole Lupin said, beginning to descend the staircase. "I'm going to stay with him tonight."   
  
If she just saw any of that, she gave no indication of it -- which probably meant that she hadn't. "All right," he said hoarsely, his throat very dry all of a sudden.   
  
Nichole approached him and lifted one hand to his cheek. He felt it, but in a detached sort of way. "He's home now. All will be well soon enough," she reassured him, or tried, anyway.   
  
Not that he didn't appreciate the effort, but he was beginning to feel the weight of the situation and Alexander wasn't sure that Nichole really grasped what was at work here. That he grasped what was at work here. "He is," he said. She drew him into an embrace and he returned it, letting her work her own brand of magic on him. "He's home."


	2. Friends and Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We move forward to the First War against Voldemort and the beginning of the circumstances that bring Fenrir Greyback to the Death Eaters and Remus Lupin to the Order of the Phoenix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of 25 chapters in this fic of the First War Against Voldemort. We'll be updating the tags as they become relevant; I promise there's a lionshare of canon here, not just OCs. Let us know what you think. (PS: We may change the update schedule!)

_What follows is no more than a decade and a half’s worth of observations and whatever I could think of to fit in order to explain away the fear, worry, and ignorance that wizards have walled ourselves in with. It is but a window into understanding our outcast brethren, but windows can be opened, and they can be climbed through, and eventually they can be widened and gotten rid of. This is my wish, and my fondest hope._  Owen Curenton,  _Pack: The Sociology of the Werewolf Pack,_  1st edition, 1976.

 _December 1976_  
Erin Curenton closed the fifth compartment door she’d opened since beginning the search for her brother Jeremy to the shouts of "Scram!" followed by a name that she would not repeat in front of her parents. So she’d interrupted something  _personal_ , so what? Why would anyone want to snog on a train anyway? The compartments weren’t that big, the seats were uncomfortable (her backside was not looking forward to the six hour train ride), and besides, snogging was gross.

She heaved her backpack, heavy with Defence books to read over the holidays, onto her back, pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes, and began to drag her trunk by the handle again. Jeremy had  _said_  he’d sit with her like he had on the way to school in September, and then he’d disappeared. For anyone else it would have been typical  _boy_  behaviour, and Jeremy wasn’t a boy, not really, because he was her brother and family didn’t count.

The next compartment was loud, all older boys who were egging on a boy who was apparently eating as many cauldron cakes in a minute as he could, and so she moved on to the next one (because Jeremy would certainly never do such a thing or egg someone on like that into something so stupid), and spying him through the window, reading a Quidditch magazine. Erin dropped the one end of her trunk, knocked on the window, and then made a face at Jeremy like she’d seen the Water Kappas make at the Magizoo in Exeter.

Jeremy had read this particular article once or twice already, but now he was scouring it for any details he may have missed. His Hogwarts Quidditch pool was populated by all but the majority of Slytherins, and his professional Quidditch pool was starting to rival that of his Slytherin fourth-year counterpart. Professional Quidditch was less predictable than Hogwarts, but Jeremy lived for Quidditch and off of his winnings. Odds depended on a lot of things, and he was looking out for each and every one in hopes of prudently suckering every Hogwarts student willing to trust that a harmless Hufflepuff was incapable of betting correctly.

Of course, by his fifth year he’d developed a reputation as a winner, but he couldn’t help that much, now could he? He was no Slytherin.

The knock on the door jarred him and Jeremy looked up, grinning widely at his ickle first year sister as he closed the magazine and scrambled to his feet to open the door. "Ah, there she is! I knew you’d track me down. Get in here, ickle firstie," he added with a smirk, stepping aside with a sweeping gesture to welcome her in.

"You left me," Erin accused, although he hadn’t technically done any such thing. She leaned down and took the handle of her trunk again, hopefully for the last time, and pulled it in after her. "I was looking for you and I had to see people  _snogging_  and it was gross and they called me a _munchkin_." She pouted a little for effect, leaving her trunk in the middle of the compartment and sliding onto the bench.

"You  _are_  a munchkin," he pointed out helpfully, and fell into a comfortable sprawl on his own bench. "And you’d better get used to people snogging, when you get to Hogsmeade weekends that’s  _all_  they do. Want a Chocolate Frog?"

"I’m the perfect size for eleven years old, dad said so," Erin replied, struggling just a little to get her backpack off. By a little, that was to say her arm was discovering new and interesting ways to bend. "And yes I do," she added, getting one arm free and the second following quickly thereafter.

"Yeah, perfect size for an eleven year old house-elf." Being four years older, Jeremy was rather a bit taller, but certainly had no size advantage to speak of over certain Slytherins who developed easy grudges against people who bet against their ability to play Quidditch. At the very least, he was speedy. "Anyway, if Mum asks I studied for my O.W.L.s all the way home." He punctuated the statement by throwing the Chocolate Frog into her lap, as though it was a bribe.

Erin looked at the Chocolate Frog package in her lap and lifted it, staring at it intently. "Yeah..." she started thoughtfully, "because I’m sure there’s going to be a lot about the professional Quidditch league on your exams. You’d probably get all O’s if that were the case, though."

"I’m all for studying and everything but some things are more important, and Quidditch is one of them," Jeremy declaimed, and tore open a Chocolate Frog of his own. "And you’re right, I would. Wish I could be obsessed with something so useful. Are you still the Defence professor’s pet?"

She bristled slightly at the idea of being a professor’s pet -- and she wouldn’t have put up with it from anyone but Jeremy. She knew that if she were a professor, she certainly wouldn’t have favourites, everyone deserved to be treated the same and have the same things expected of them. "I like Defence, and the professor likes me!" she defended, pulling her bag closer to her side.

"That’s the definition, isn’t it?" he asked, but not nearly as on the offensive as before. Teasing her was all well and good, but Jeremy couldn’t bring himself to offend Erin for very long. "Right, like you’d let anyone give you the easy way out. I know, I know."

It was going to be so stereotypical Hufflepuff to say so, but she couldn’t help herself. "That’s not fair," she said. "Nobody else should have to work harder than I do just because the professor likes me. I’d be mad if it weren’t me and it were someone else," she finished, and finally tore her Chocolate Frog package open.

"I wish McGonagall would give me the easy way out," Jeremy muttered, biting into the frog with the full intent of using it as an excuse to not talk for a moment. After swallowing, he remarked, "How noble and Hufflepuff of you, Mum and Dad’ll be thrilled to hear how well you’re fitting into the Curenton mold."

"I’m sure they will," she said in a very dignified tone, sitting up a little bit straighter, although it was hard to do anything but sit up straight on these benches. Erin  _liked_  Hufflepuff. The Slytherins were scary and mean in large numbers, Ravenclaws were too busy being clever with one another to make really good friends with, and Gryffindors could just be kind of stupid sometimes. And Hufflepuff had her brother, and basically the entire family before her, so it had always seemed like a very good place to be.

He gave her a wary, older-brotherly look and sat with a straight posture. Fun and games were over, now was time to begin the interrogation. "You’re enjoying Hogwarts," he checked. "Not anyone bothering you or anything, right, because if there is -- well, I  _am_  a prefect."

Oh  _brother_. She sighed theatrically and blew her fringe clean off her forehead. "Nobody’s bothering me. I think they all know that they have to deal with _you_  if they even look at me sideways."

"That’s  _good_ ," Jeremy felt the need to point out. "You know the Slytherins can be right arses, and so can the Gryffindors -- James Potter and his mates, for example -- I wouldn’t want you to have to put up with that because you’d probably hex people to bits."

Erin wondered briefly if Jeremy was just a little mad, like seemed to run in the family, or if he was just downright insane. "They wouldn’t bother me again," she pointed out in return.

"Yes, but then you get detentions, and detentions are bad," he returned with the stern tone of one who had never experienced such a thing but knew it by nature. Besides, it was in the rules, probably. Yeah, he was a dreadful prefect. "The point is, are you sure?"

"I think I’d notice people picking on me, Jeremy," she answered slowly, and rolled her eyes before biting the leg off of her chocolate frog. She took the card out of the package and read the back. "Rowena Ravenclaw, d’you have her?" she asked, hoping to distract him with the prospect of a new Chocolate Frog card.

The distraction was successful. "...I traded her off to Dirk, I think." Jeremy frowned, mentally scanning his collection, though he actually didn’t put that much effort into collecting cards unless they had something to do with Quidditch. "I won’t take her if you want her, though," he added quickly.

"I have her," she shook her head, holding it out to him. "I had two of her and then I traded the second for Dumbledore." Everyone seemed to get Dumbledore cards but her, it was a running joke in the family, practically.

He raised his head slowly to give her a look of mock surprise. "You actually own a Dumbledore card? When? Why didn’t I hear of this? What will be your ambition in life from now on?” He snatched at the card, sending her a cheeky grin.

“Hey!" she protested, and held on tight. "I do, since October, you don’t have to know everything, and I  _still_  want to be an Auror, and if you’re going to tease me then I’m going to find someone else to give the card to!"

Oh, now he couldn’t possibly let go of it. Even if it was just a Ravenclaw card (load of overdramatic snobs and he didn’t suspect that the Founder was much better), that wasn’t entirely the point. "I’m  _supposed_  to tease you, I’m your brother, now come on, ickle Auror!"

"Not when I’m being nice! That’s not how you get what you want, Jeremy!" She leaned forward, pulling the card towards her.

He’d let her pull, Jeremy told himself, but he wasn’t letting go until he wanted to. She was also a first year and cute, and he could not be outdone by her. "Oh all right, how do you get what you want, then?" he asked, grinning despite himself.

Erin opened her mouth to tell her brother  _exactly_  what she did to get her way (it usually involved the word "please" and a very adorable smile that she was sure wouldn’t work for much longer), but stopped when the door to the compartment opened and a girl with a long, dark plait stepped in and closed the door behind her and crouched on the floor, ideally out of sight from the windows. "Who’re you?" Erin asked before either of them had a chance to speak.

Julia Frobisher had thought this compartment would be safe enough -- Jeremy would certainly understand her dilemma and the girl must be his sister. A firstie, from what Julia knew. She thought her name began with an E. "Sorry," she told Jeremy, ignoring Erin for the moment. "Gilly’s become a madwoman. I mean, more than usual. So I’m just going to hide here for a bit."

Jeremy’s attention wavered from the rivalry at hand, and it took only a moment for him to release the card. "Keep it, I’ll beg it off of you later," he told Erin, then was ready to address Julia with a wry grin. "Oh well, can’t deny you sanctuary." He straightened a little to see if Gillian Broadmoor, Gryffindor Quidditch fiend, was passing by. "Did you insult the Falcons? She can get really mad about the Falcons." He could remember a certain occasion of that for sure... then he remembered that Erin was actually there. "Oh -- Julia -- this is my sister Erin, Hufflepuff firstie, Erin, this is Julia Frobisher. Slytherin, my year."  _One of the few people who’ll listen to me talk._

Erin held the Ravenclaw card to her chest, quite certain that he would  _not_  beg it off her later. She was feeling actually quite hopeful at meeting one of her brother’s friends -- older people, you know, quite grown up and all, but when she heard "Slytherin", she was only able to go, "Oh," and lean back, intently examining Rowena, who was rolling her eyes.  _Tell me about it_ , Erin thought in response.

"Er, yes, hello to you too," Julia said, and slid up onto the bench next to Jeremy. "As for why I’m hiding from Gilly -- I  _may_  have insinuated that the Harpies had a better chance at the League Championship. But they do! You even said so the other day in the library!"

"They do," he affirmed, winding himself up to release the summary of events. "Just by two spots, it’s a tossup between the Arrows, the Harpies and the Falcons, from what I can tell at the moment. But Falmouth keeps on the old Broadmoor strategy most of the time which  _usually_  works but doesn’t always... anyway, it doesn’t work if the Seeker you have is speedy enough to keep the Beaters out of their hair, and the Harpies have a new one who looks promising."

"HA. I told her so," Julia said triumphantly. "But does she listen? No. You can tell her yourself if she finds me, preferably before she beats me over the head with something very heavy, please."

"Then she’ll beat me over the head with something very heavy," Jeremy protested. "She  _already_  thumped me once when I won a Galleon off of her... oh bleeding kneazles, is someone coming?"

"Shh!" Julia laughed, and leaned against the compartment door to listen. "It’s her," she whispered again, trying to flatten herself against the bench, as if that would work. Erin merely rolled her eyes again, although she could hear her mother tell her to stop rolling them because they were going to get stuck one day and then what would she do, but this situation definitely called for it. Her brother’s friends were weird. And a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, which made it about ten times weirder.

Jeremy stifled a laugh, glancing over at Erin only to find himself perturbed that she was not finding the humour in this at all. Kids. He didn’t have the time to speak up nor straighten his face because then the door of the compartment opened smoothly. A girl with her Gryffindor tie slung loosely around her neck looked from first year to Hufflepuff to "AHA!"

Gilly Broadmoor stepped in triumphantly and pulled the door shut. "I have you now, Frobisher," she announced. "What’s your slippery Slytherin arse going to do about that, yeah,  _Harpies_  my arse."

Julia looked up at Gilly and pointed at Jeremy. "He said so," she told her friend, shifting the blame. "He told me in the library the other night, I  _told_  you." She dropped her arm and crossed them across her chest. "You can apologise to me later when the Harpies do win the League and the Falcons are picking broom twigs out of their arses."

Gilly absorbed that without comment, instead focusing her discerning look on Jeremy as she snatched up his Quidditch magazine. Jeremy wasn’t easily cowed, but after a moment of silence had to say, "If you’re going to hit me, get it over with, but Falmouth only doesn’t – HEY,” he protested as she hit him over the head. 

Gilly merrily unrolled the magazine and handed it back to him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Hufflepuffs," she directed to the little girl at the other side of the compartment. "We both better leave, really, leave these two to snog." 

"If Falmouth would stop relying on its Beaters to do everything for them -- " Jeremy wasn’t the kind to merely drop a subject, but the new subject was a little more urgent. He shot the briefest glance at Julia, but only said, "Shut it, Broadmoor.”

" _I’m_  not leaving anyway, I was here first," Erin said plainly, daring either of the older girls to say something about it. The second one (Broadmoor, Jeremy called her) might, but she didn’t think that Julia would. She didn’t seem the type. Besides, she had to save her brother from a snogging.

"Shut up, we’re not going to snog." Jeremy rolled his eyes and worked on straightening out his poor Quidditch magazine. Bloody Gryffindors and their disregard for personal property.

Gilly straightened proudly, flaunting her height despite that she stood (literally) above everyone else. She watched with some satisfaction as Curenton began to develop a sort of annoyed flush, and addressed the kid. "Who do you support?" she asked, importantly.

Jeremy had already edged towards Julia, and muttered to her, "Would it be too suspicious if we tried to get out of here?"

"She registers movement. If we just sit still, she might lose interest and leave us alone," Julia joked back.

"Caerphilly," Erin answered Gilly. She mostly loved how ridiculous lime green and crimson stripes looking on  _everyone_  no matter what age or gender, but it had become an emotional attachment over time.

"Oh, Caerphilly, they’re just a load of girls." Gilly appeared to have no trouble tossing off a comment that she would take someone’s head off for saying in any context. She turned to look at Julia and Jeremy, and pulled a face at their proximity. "Practically snogging already, spare the kid, she’ll need her eyesight!" She fixed a glare on Jeremy. "And the Harpies  _can’t_  beat the Falcons!" she proclaimed.

Jeremy tried not to smirk, or look at Julia. "Whatever you say. Does this mean you’re leaving?"

"Oh, so you want me to leave?" Gilly gave the pair a disapproving frown.

"Er, we should probably both go," Julia said, hoping her cheeks weren’t showing a colour that was darker than what was just considered healthy, even though she could feel her face burning. She jumped up and began to jostle Gilly out of the compartment. "My camera’s still on the seat after all, don’t want anyone stealing or breaking it..."

"All right," Jeremy said, unwilling to make a fuss about being left alone with his firstie sister with them. They were Quidditch girls, they could hurt him. "Hope it hasn’t been stolen or anything, you’ll need it for hols, right?" 

Gilly caught Julia’s eye, gave her a pointed quirk of an eyebrow, then with a derisive laugh pulled open the compartment door and left. 

Julia ignored the look. After all, if she didn’t acknowledge it, Gilly would stop. Someday. "Yeah, family holiday and all that," she said, although what that would end up bringing was always up in the air. She edged towards the door, and then waved. "Um, well. Have a good holiday, you two," she said in farewell before disappearing after Gilly.

Erin looked up from Rowena Ravenclaw, who’d begun to make faces at her after intense scrutiny. "You have really weird friends," she informed Jeremy.

Jeremy shrugged. "Dunno if I’d call Broadmoor a friend but she’s not bad, I guess. And Julia’s practically the only good Slytherin in that dungeon."

"I guess she was nice," Erin said. No use in pretending that the idea of a nice Slytherin wasn’t perturbing, but she supposed stranger things had been known to happen.

"She’s not one of them," he said offhand, or tried to. He didn’t like the turn this conversation was making. "There are... her roommates -- but it doesn’t matter. Can’t wait to meet your friends, you have some, right?"

There was no doubt that the conversation had been turning just a little weird, but the mention of  _her_  friends changed things. "Alicia Edgecombe thinks you’re  _dreamy_ ," she teased.

He reminded himself that she was a first year, but that didn’t stop him from flushing again. "Oh, yeah right, I wouldn’t put a knut on that. What’s ‘dreamy’ supposed to mean, anyway? You girls are  _weird_."

"It’s..." She gesticulated with the card, trying to find the appropriate description for what ‘dreamy’ meant, and found herself unable to complete that sentence. "I don’t know! But I told her you snore and she says she  _still_  fancies you."

Not a subject he wanted to continue -- he’d run into those girls before and he had never, ever heard so much giggling in his life. "You don’t fancy anyone, do you?" he asked cautiously, trying not to look as worried as he felt. What if  _Erin_  was giggling over someone like that? The idea was frightening.

"No!" she said, scandalized at the notion. "And even if I did, I wouldn’t be telling you!" she added, equally scandalized.

"That means you could not be telling me  _now_ ," he said, looking a little distressed. "But -- I’ll believe you. Just hope I don’t see you going after anyone in my dorm is all."

"You should find something new to worry about," she advised him, putting her feet up on the corner of the trunk (her legs wouldn’t quite reach far enough to rest on the opposite bench comfortably) and watching the countryside roll past.

~*~

  
  
James Potter strode out of the car that held Lily Evans and Mary MacDonald with an air of utter confidence and his three best mates following closely behind him (all right, maybe Sirius was sort of walking beside him), as though he hadn’t just been completely shot down. "She’s playing hard to get," he said, glancing aside to Sirius, "it’s obvious, she wants me. She’ll give in soon, I’m sure."  
  
"Any day now," Sirius agreed dryly, popping a couple more Every Flavour beans in his mouth. "She’ll be begging you to escort her to Hogsmeade, classes, and every place in between."  
  
Remus sent another apologetic look to Lily and Mary through the window of the door. Lily responded by pulling down the shade, successfully blocking the four boys out of the compartment completely. "Well. That I don’t know about," he said dryly as the two girls’ laughter floated out to them.  
  
"I dunno, she has put up with James for this long," Peter spoke up. "She wouldn’t if she  _didn’t_  fancy him back, right?"  
  
James scoffed and exchanged looks with Sirius. "She’s not  _putting up_  with me, Wormtail," he said, explaining yet clearly condescending. "She’s playing hard to get. Huge difference."  
  
"You’ve seen her put up with people," Sirius said. "She makes that face – the listening face." He imitated, eyes open and mouth set in a line. "And she uses those phrases – you know, the dismissive ones, like ‘that’s interesting’ or ‘I see’ or ‘okay’."   
  
Remus exchanged a look with Peter. "You mean... the look she uses with you?"  
  
"Shut it, Moony, that is not the point here!" he said, hitting Remus on the shoulder.  
  
"She  _doesn’t_  use them with me. She barely lets me talk." James gained the smug, faraway look he always got when thinking about Lily. "She can’t contain herself around me, that’s the problem, she’ll learn to control her feelings soon enough."  
  
"I think I can still hear them laughing," Peter noted as they left that full compartment as well.  
  
"But are they laughing at us, or with us?" Sirius posed the question philosophically.   
  
"A penetrating question for the ages," Remus muttered in response.  
  
"We’re not laughing, so I guess that only leaves one option," Peter figured.  
  
James shrugged it off and opened the door. "Who cares?" He settled back in their original compartment, putting his feet up on his trunk.  
  
With that, the tone changed. Sirius settled across from James, settling on the uncomfortable bench like it was an armchair in the common room. "Well, either way. Evans is all yours, mate."  
  
Remus settled into his own corner, picking his book back up and prepared to be half-reading, half-listening all the way home. These conversations were usually the ones it was best for him to stay out of – he got to hear Lily complain on rounds.  
  
"She is, she’s just waiting for the taking. I’ll get to it one of these days," James dismissed it. "Are we going out on Boxing Day?"  
  
"I, uh, yeah, sure," Peter spoke up eagerly, sitting up from his corner near the window.  
  
"Definitely," Sirius said. "Can’t keep away all of hols."  
  
Remus felt his friends’ eyes glance to him, and he looked up. "Well, I’d have to check," he said.  
  
"Oh, just sneak out if you have to, forget your parents," James said.  
  
"Not everyone’s parents let them run off, is all," Peter said, only realising once he’d said it what exactly he’d said. "I mean. Leave the house more than a bit."  
  
Sirius shrugged. "Moony’s mum loves us. Call us in, we’ll charm her into letting you out!" he grinned, an example of his most charming countenance.  
  
James sniggered at the mere sight of his best mate’s innocent, charming facade. "I can’t believe anyone falls for that," he laughed.  
  
Remus had to smile as well. "Don’t worry. She doesn’t. She’s humouring you."  
  
"If you say so," James said, grinning. "Just doesn’t like you flirting with his mum, Padfoot, she’s a special girl you know."  
  
Sirius leered. "She couldn’t handle it."   
  
Remus groaned and covered his face with his book. "Okay. I will talk about anything else as long as it doesn’t involve my mother."  
  
"I still think she winked at you when we brought Remus back on New Year’s Eve last year," James mused to Sirius, with the start of a smirk.  
  
"She may have asked us all if we had a good time, but her eyes said so much...  _more_ ," Sirius said.  
  
"I’m not listening to you," Remus replied loftily, turning a page in his book.  
  
"I think you’re a little young for her, Sirius," Peter said, a little uncomfortable at this turn.  
  
"It’s true, she’d want someone mature, intelligent, yet still charming and good-looking. Maybe even a Star Chaser… do we know anyone like that?" James asked, mock-thoughful.  
  
"Still not listening."  
  
"Hm. You’re right, Prongs, finding all those  _outstanding_  qualities in one person would be like looking for a needle in a haystack," Sirius answered thoughtfully.  
  
Remus looked up at Peter. “They’re not going to stop until we distract them with something else, are they?” he asked.   
  
Peter nodded, then looked up at the window of the compartment door and sat up quickly. "Look," he exclaimed to James. "It’s  _Aubrey_."  
  
"I’m not going to fall for that." James waved it off. "Let’s get back to Remus’s saucy mum."  
  
Remus grimaced, but Sirius had caught a glance as well and sat up a little straighter. "No, he’s right, Prongs. Git," he added, ostensibly meaning Aubrey rather than any of his present company.  
  
James actually bothered to glance up, and saw Aubrey lingering outside of a nearby compartment. Aha, something to do. "Come on," he said to Sirius, and opened the door.  
  
When Remus had said something else to distract them, he’d meant an Exploding Snap game, or someone’s cat getting into their compartment and go insane trying to get out. "Guys – " he started weakly. Sirius waved him off, following after James.  
  
"You heard him, come on," Peter said to Remus, hurrying after his mates.  
  
"Oh, Sirius, careful, we’re in the presence of a real prefect," James noted with mock worry. "Don’t breathe too loudly, he might take points or something."  
  
Bertram Aubrey abruptly closed the door of the compartment and turned to face James Potter and his pack of idiots. "Aren’t you four supposed to be torturing Snape right now?"  
  
"Well, I’m not saying if he shows up we won’t give him a go, but one berk’s the same as the next, sometimes," Sirius said, crossing his arms, and made a show of trying to glance over Aubrey’s shoulder. "Whatcha doing? Scaring firsties?"   
  
"That’s not hard, all he has to do is look in their direction," James interjected the moment Sirius stopped speaking. "No wonder he got prefect, he can keep the Slytherins hiding in the dungeons just by showing his face."  
  
"Whereas you only have Lily Evans running in the opposite direction," Bertram said with a cold smile.  
  
"Hey," Sirius said severely. "It’s ‘hard to get’."  
  
 _Very hard to get_ , Remus thought to himself as he hung back in the compartment door. "Guys," he said again. "There’s no reason to – come on, it’s hols. Let’s just relax."  
  
"Aw, don’t start, Remus, we’re all having a good time, am I right?" James gave Aubrey a smile that didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. "Who’s in the compartment, your boyfriend?"  
  
Bertram rolled his eyes at them and pushed open the door to reveal a surprised-looking first year wearing a Ravenclaw tie. "My sister, actually," he said crisply, then entered the compartment and added, "Put an Inflation Charm on  _her_  head at your own peril."  
  
"If she takes after you she won’t need the help," Peter spoke up from behind Sirius.  
  
Sirius had to laugh at that. "Oh, so you  _were_  scaring firsties," he said.  
  
"He’s not scary," the girl protested. "And you’re prats -- "  
  
"Charlotte," Bertram chided, and went to close the door of the compartment right in the Gryffindors’ faces.  
  
James stopped him closing the door. "Yeah, language, Charlotte," he said. "And there’s no shame in being afraid of a cockroach like your brother."  
  
"Yeah," Sirius echoed. "I mean, the look of him sends most people in the opposite direction. Gryffindors’re about the only ones who can stand to look at him. You sure you’re a Ravenclaw?"  
  
"I’m too smart to be a Gryffindor," Charlotte retorted.  
  
Bertram snorted, and James’s hand went to his wand. "Or too boring," he said, and Transfigured Bertram into a cockroach. "There, that’s more like it."  
  
"Good show, Prongs!" Sirius laughed, and eyed Aubrey the cockroach. It was at least six inches long, busy little legs skittering, and -- was it hopping in anger? "Merlin’s sodding trousers, you could have chosen an uglier bug," he added facetiously.   
  
"Dunno, Sirius, that’s pretty ugly," Peter said, making a face.  
  
"Change him back," Charlotte shouted, pulling her legs up onto the bench to keep away from the bug.  
  
"You can tell the difference? Good eye," James said with a snort, and Transfigured the cockroach into a monstrous spider like a miniature Acromantula, sniggering as the girl gave a shriek of terror. "Much better!"  
  
Peter goggled in shock and amusement, and exclaimed, "What  _is_  that?"  
  
James was laughing too hard to answer, as the Aubrey spider scrabbled at the bench where his sister crouched screaming in terror.  
  
"JAMES POTTER."  
  
Heads turned, and Lily Evans stood in the corridor with her hands on her hips and green eyes narrowed severely. Mary MacDonald stood behind her, somewhat less harsh but still imitating Lily’s stance and unamused attitude. "Now we’re in trouble," Sirius said with a snigger.  
  
And James had been mad enough to think the situation couldn’t get any better. He got control of his laughter and retained a proud grin. "Evans," he said. "I knew you couldn’t stay away."  
  
She ignored him. "What are you doing? It’s bad enough when it’s at the school and – "  
  
"Lily," Mary interrupted, her eyes wide and she pointed at spider-Bertram and Charlotte, who was now in tears.   
  
Lily could hardly believe it. "Is that a student?"  
  
The boys were quiet for a moment. "Well," Sirius finally said. "There’s too many legs for it to be a fish."   
  
She glared and took out her wand, pointing it at the oversized spider. " _Finite Incantatum_ ," she said, and with an audible pop, Bertram Aubrey reappeared on the floor of the compartment.  
  
James snorted as the firstie ran over to her brother, sobbing, but had the self-preservation instinct enough to look up at Lily. "Just a bit of a joke," he said casually, very cool. "Suits him, doesn’t it?"  
  
"You are an idiot," she seethed. "And it’s not enough you have to go looking for people to torment when you’re in school, but on the train? Really, James?"

 

"A spot of fun, Evans, you must know what that’s like," Sirius broke in.  
  
"Really," she replied flatly. "Was it fun for him? Was it fun for her?" she demanded, pointing at Bertram and Charlotte, the former now comforting the latter.  
  
James shrugged that off. "They’re  _Aubreys_ , they don’t have a sense of humour. And really, all I need is your firm hand to get back in line, Evans," he added, with a charming smile.  
  
She remained unamused at them all, and for the first time, she looked at Remus. He couldn’t help but feel guilty at the look she gave him, disappointed as anything. It said,  _you know better_. She looked away and asked Bertram, "Are you both okay?"  
  
"We’re fine," Bertram said flatly, and charmed the door to slam shut.  
  
James scoffed and leaned against the now closed door, eyeing Evans. "See, it’s not so bad. You two want to join us at all?"  
  
"We were going to catch up to the sweets cart. Too bad!" Mary piped up, giving her blonde curls an indignant shake.  
  
"Too bad," Sirius echoed. "We could, ah. Use the company."   
  
Mary made a noise and Lily took her arm. "Come on, Mary, let’s go. We can probably still catch up if we go fast. Have a good Christmas," she said without much enthusiasm as they walked past.  
  
"You have to admire how she plays it cool," James said to Sirius under his breath.  
  
"I do, Prongs, I do," Sirius said solemnly as he watched Mary MacDonald’s skirt ride up slightly as they walked away from them.  
  
James was still staring after the girls until the door shut, when Peter’s voice unfortunately stole his attention. "We missed the sweets cart?"  
  
"Probably while we were bothering them in their compartment," Remus pointed out.   
  
"Well, go chase it down if it bothers you so," Sirius replied carelessly, sitting back in his seat again, looking quite casual and cool as he did so.  
  
"Forget it," James dismissed, and sat on his trunk, waiting until Peter came back inside and sat to unfold the copy of The Daily Prophet and rip off a sheet of newsprint without a regard to what it said. "Padfoot, want to play some table Quidditch?"  
  
"You want to lose to the table Quidditch champion of Hogwarts class of 1978? Okay, let’s do this," Sirius said, straightening up.  
  


~*~

  
  
It was a day nearly two weeks in the making, but that knowledge made it no easier for Fenrir to go about the daily routine of maintaining the pack while his Father lay dying in his upstairs room, the place of honour. Every day since the illness came on so suddenly, Fenrir felt every gasping breath, sharp pain, and fever that his Father suffered as though he lay delirious right beside him. It was maddening, crippling, and tragic, and still the routine had to go on.   
  
He could feel his Father Greyback’s wolf at nearly every moment as it struggled, paced, snarled, cowed, whimpered, and his own wolf could do nothing for its Father besides comfort and cower, comfort and cower. Appropriate enough. There was nothing Fenrir could do for his own pack but comfort and cower, play king  _and_  prince while his Father lay dying.   
  
Anger was his only refuge, as it always had been -- anger and duty forced him awake each morning to do the painful job of prematurely stepping into his role as pack leader, one that, as far as he was concerned, was not yet his to take on.   
  
Today was nearly two weeks in the making, but fourteen days weren’t enough to convince Fenrir that this wasn’t anything more than a rehearsal for what would happen in the far-off future that could exist without Greyback at the helm of their pack. Greyback was seventy-five, his lungs were rattling and he was gasping for breath, he’d clung to life for nearly a week now, and today was the day, but it didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.   
  
Fenrir, heir to the Greyback pack, was twenty-three, and for thirteen years, he’d sat at the knee of his Father to learn lesson after lesson, take punishment after punishment and reward after reward like the child he was. He’d received some small powers, but Greyback was always in control, and Fenrir...   
  
 _Trust me, I’m yours to command, Father, my life is yours until I take my last breath. You know that.  
  
You’re mine to command, I command you every day. Do you expect something more, or something less? What do you expect from me? _  
  
Thirteen years and two purifications of the pack passed, and still Greyback’s favourite son was just an heir, a name, a man with a head full of lessons and little to practise them on, not so much favoured as honoured.  _Named.  
  
Trust me. _  
  
Fenrir thought long and said nothing as Laurel stirred beside him in their bed. He brushed her hair away and drew his fingertips along the cursed scars framing her collarbone, where he’d bit her fourteen years ago and made her his. Greyback’s wolf lashed out along their tie, powerful enough still to make him flinch, and Laurel’s eyes blinked drowsily open at his sudden movement.   
  
"Good morning," she murmured, and kissed his unshaven cheek.   
  
"Not so good," he returned, resting his head on the mattress again.   
  
Her thin face grew drawn as she settled in next to him. "He wasn’t doing well last night, I can tell you that, not when I last checked -- "   
  
There was a knock on the door, and Fenrir shoved the sheet out of the way, cold be damned. "What?" he demanded, shoved just as hard out of his reverie by another cry from his Father’s equally delirious wolf, and his own wolf’s agitation.   
  
"Father. We need you."   
  
Wesley, his second named son, his expected (but not actual) heir, always the bland and cold soldier, even when likely delivering news of the pack leader’s impending death. "What is it?" Fenrir asked, and threw Laurel’s trousers to her.   
  
There was a pause on the other side of the door. "It’s Father Greyback."   
  
"Don’t trouble yourself with this, Wesley, tend to the children." Fenrir lashed out at him over the tie, hard enough that he could  _hear_  the reaction through the door.   
  
"Yes, Father."   
  
Wesley left, and Fenrir pulled on clothing, the wolf struggling for control as his anger and frustration began to overwhelm him. He fumbled with his buttons until he felt -- not saw -- Laurel take over, and he exhaled slowly, resentfully, his eyes closed, as the wolf fell silent.   
  
 _Go to him_ , it said with a nudge.  _Don’t be afraid._  
  
Without a glance at Laurel, he left the room and stalked upstairs, though he soon felt Laurel assert her presence behind him (as always, not failing for one day in fourteen years). By the time he reached Greyback’s door, Wesley and Laurel both flanked him, though he forced them back a step with a mere look.   
  
 _I’m not afraid of anything_ , he told the wolf as he opened the door.   
  
The reaction from Greyback was instant, almost automatic -- a stinging slap across the tie, enough to smart but not enough to make him cower. "Father," he began, and knelt in deference beside the bed. "I was coming."   
  
Greyback stared at him. His weathered face was now bony and sharp enough to add a further edge to every order and threat, but undercut by the weakened voice and constricted gasps of breathing. Their pack leader was weak. "Tell me what you’ve learned," he ground out.   
  
Lessons, always lessons, even now as a death rattle started in his lungs. But as a good son, he never refused a command. "We -- werewolves  _are_ superior. We’re united, strong and cunning where the wizards are scattered, weak and impulsive. The wolf is our strongest ally, unity our strongest goal, pack our only truth -- "   
  
" -- war our perfect state," Greyback completed.   
  
"And when we are united, unified as a race, then the wizards will know,  _only_  then -- "   
  
"Even if Curenton tries." Greyback’s lips pulled back into a grim smile.   
  
Fenrir was not so amused. "Pack is the only truth. He knows nothing of pack, understands less. He runs a  _hotel_ , Father, and -- "   
  
"Not now," his Father said. "Keep going."   
  
 _Keep going_ , his wolf echoed, and so Fenrir did. "We are one pack, as a race, pack is the fundamental state of werewolves, and only when we’re unified as one pack can we overcome the wizards." He stared at the rapid, jerky rising and falling of his Father’s chest. Child’s lessons while his Father died. He was the  _heir_  --   
  
"You must keep your pack together, Fenrir." Greyback got in a breath. "Not -- let them scatter. Woman -- or bastard -- or long-lost heirs. You mustn’t do what I did -- "   
  
 _Long-lost heirs_. Now wasn’t the time for that train of thought. "You have a strong pack, Father, one of the strongest, don’t think otherwise -- "   
  
"Bastards and father-killers -- they crave pack, Fenrir, but they’ll never have it -- you have to control them, stop them before they start. You  _must_ , no antics."   
  
This sounded more and more like a last will and testament, and Fenrir bristled, though his wolf could feel its Father fading. "No. You’re not finished. Not yet."   
  
"Damn it, listen to me," Greyback hissed, gasping for air from the effort. "I’m -- I’m your Father, yes, but you’re the Father to this pack now, just as there were -- " another gasp -- "Fathers before me and there will be Fathers ...  _after_  me. Pack is -- pack is pack, the only truth -- the leader doesn’t define the pack -- "   
  
"The pack defines the leader," Fenrir finished, dazed and light-headed at the shock. This was really happening. "Father -- "   
  
"There is nothing without pack, my son," Greyback whispered. "Pack... is what we rely on, and what we defend. Without it... we are nothing."   
  
"Father," Fenrir repeated in a whisper of his own, his fingers tighten in the sheets on the deathbed. His tears spilled over, and he lowered his head, his wolf latching onto its Father. A younger part of Fenrir only wished he could latch onto his Father in the same way.   
  
Greyback lifted his hand to touch his son’s lowered head, and his weak wolf gave its son comfort, a paternal brush.  _The pack is yours._  
  
Fenrir lay his cheek on the cold sheets as Greyback’s chest gave a last jerk, his breaths slowing and coming to a stop. Fenrir’s hands tightened into fists, white-knuckled, but he said and did nothing, though his Father’s approving hand grew cold and heavy on his head.   
  
Footsteps threatened to approach some minutes later, but he turned his head to speak. "No, Wesley." He swallowed to control the emotion in his voice and the silence of his wolf, wiped his face, and only then did Wesley approach, guiding a shaky Fenrir to his feet.   
  
Fenrir lifted his head and met the eyes of the two he trusted most. "We tell the pack," he said. "Find them. Now."   
  
Wesley left without delay, but Laurel lingered, approached and moved to wipe what trace of wetness remained on his face away with her sleeve. Fenrir moved his head, his expression still stoic and sharp. "No," he said.   
  
"Fenrir." She took one of his hands in both of hers, her soft, tiny, womanly hands.   
  
"I’m Father to this pack. And I need you," he said, turning to look at her. "I need you to do what I say when I say it. We have a pack to protect."   
  
Laurel nodded, her soft, adoring expression hardening into a serious, dedicated one. "I understand, Father."   
  
"Then go."   
  
She left him alone with his thoughts and the body of his Father. Fenrir found it in himself to approach Greyback’s body after a long moment, and drew the sheet over his Father’s lifeless eyes.   
  
Like Greyback and the Fathers before him, Fenrir would press on and fight their war to preserve their pack. Pack was truth, and he needed nothing more than that.  
  


~*~

As a house, the Den wasn’t a lot to look at. It was big, but slightly dilapidated, all of the furniture was mismatched, and there were plenty of places where the paint was worn off – but it was four walls and a roof with locks on the doors, which was more than a lot of the people who stayed there may have had otherwise. Less than impressive as a house, its owner and operator, Owen Curenton, liked to think it went beyond that as a safehouse for werewolves who just plain needed somewhere to go. So they went to the Den in northern Pembrokeshire. The nearby village was not particularly thrilled with its presence, as evidenced by the rocks the Curentons kept on their mantle that had usually entered the house – theirs, or the Den – through a window. As time had worn on, the rocks had stopped coming, but all it would take was one spark to start the fire.  
  
The Den was a short walk from the Curenton house, only ten minutes at a leisurely pace, but Erin could make it in five if she ran, which today she did at her mother’s bidding; her father was late again. She kicked up the snow as she ran and attempted to push the sleeves of the oversized jumper she’d put on in lieu of a cloak up and over her hands. She could see the lighted house ahead of her, and when she reached it she jumped up the porch steps and breezed through the front door as easily as she did at her own house. “DADDY.”  
  
There was no mistaking the voice, or the tone which he’d been called. “In here, Erin,” he looked up at the door and she strode in, all indignation with a hand on her hip and the other rebelliously flipping her blonde hair. She might have looked imposing… if the jumper weren’t ridiculously large on her thin, four and a half feet tall frame. The corner of his mouth slowly slid upwards.   
  
She knew the look well enough. She marched into his office and went right behind the desk. He was almost surprised that she climbed into his lap and tried not to groan as she did so. She wasn’t going to be able to do this for a whole lot longer, that was for certain. “Dad. You are late. You told mum that you would be home half an hour ago.”  
  
“Did I?” He looked at his watch. He was going to be in trouble again. “I did. Um. Oh.” He looked at the parchments on the desk and back at his daughter, who was returning a Look of her own, one undoubtedly inherited from his wife’s side of the family. “Give me a few more minutes?”  
  
“ _Dad._ ” She crossed her arms and stared at him. “I thought since your book was done you’d be okay again.”  
  
”Oh, don’t make faces,” he tapped her nose playfully. “Here. Take some ink and parchment and just… draw something, occupy yourself. A few minutes, I promise. Five, tops.”  
  
“Five tops?” she repeated, raising one eyebrow.  
  
“Five tops,” he promised, kissing her on the cheek and with that, she slid off his lap. He took a bit of scrap parchment and ink and handed it to her, she took a quill out of the holder on the desk. She flounced out of the room without another word, headed for the large main room to wait for her father.   
  
Erin rested her chin in her hand and tried not to sigh impatiently, or look at the clock. Her resolve broke, and she glanced at the clock across the room. Five more minutes had turned into twenty. She gave in completely and gave a sigh, and laid her head down on the table. She could go in and tell him they had to leave, but that’d be like bothering him and he was working and when he was working at home mum said not to bother him -- even though she did sometimes.  
  
She glanced at the clock again. One minute later. She turned over the parchment and tried to read what was written there in her father’s unintelligible scrawl. That would pass plenty of time.  
  
Fenrir paced the main room of the Den, which at this hour was empty – rare, but one glare from a pack leader infamous for having two or three werewolves capable of killing without a second thought could clear any room. If Laurel was there, he might have been able to calm down. He still didn’t see why she’d actually run away from him, her Father, when he tore Owen Curenton’s book, a mockery of their entire kind, into unrecognisable shreds of parchment. It made sense to him; one less copy to be read, one less wizard to be misled by it.  
  
He could storm Owen’s office, pick him up by the throat, threaten his life --  _take_  his life, for the betrayal he had delivered to the packs he had supposedly been helping. It was tempting – but temptation waned when he saw a girl, Curenton’s young daughter, whiling time away outside the office.  
  
The line of her neck, her light hair against it, reminded him of Laurel lying still in agony after he had nearly broken her collarbone in the heat of the wolf’s rage. When he had saved her, made her like him.  
  
Fenrir stepped out casually as though he had been walking, and stopped at the sight of her. "Hello," he greeted her quietly. If she didn’t respond, he would simply walk on. It was her choice.  
  
"‘lo," Erin answered automatically and dejectedly, making out " _A wolf’s pack is his family,_ ” and not a whole lot else. No wonder her dad made people mad with his writing, they were probably mad that they couldn’t read most of it. It was actually another few seconds before she looked up at Fenrir, and blinked. She didn’t recognise him, and she knew a lot of the regular dwellers at the Den at least in passing. "I don’t know you," she told him point blank.  
  
He hadn’t expected her to know him; he’d made it a point to remain a bystander in regard to the Den as he did the matters of all wizarding politics, waiting for the day that they showed weakness, that he could stand up on behalf of his race. "Fenrir," he introduced himself, voice low so as to not possibly attract her father’s attention from inside the room. "I don’t come here often myself, but you might know Laurel. She’s one of mine. I know you – you’re Owen’s daughter, of course."  
  
"Oh!" Erin said, recognition lighting in her eyes. "Yeah, I know Laurel." Not very well, admittedly, but she could conjure up a mental image. "And – yeah," she added needlessly, feeling uncharacteristically shy, and focusing intently on the parchment scrap.  
  
Fenrir just smiled, a baring of teeth. An unintentional intimidation technique, but the girl was likely used to it with the amount of time her father spent with the  _savage werewolves._  "You don’t come here often, I don’t think," he said as amicably as he could manage. "Your brother is here more often. He brings his wireless. Do you follow Quidditch like him?"  
  
"I don’t come as much as him, no," she said, leaning back on her hands. "And I don’t follow Quidditch as much as him but I like to watch it, but he reads Quidditch magazines and everything and he’s just  _obsessed_ , but he runs a betting pool so he has to know what’s going on – " Erin’s hand flew to cover her mouth and her cheeks pinked slightly. "I don’t think I should mention that."  
  
Fenrir positively grinned at that. Gambling and drinking were banned in the Den, and the owner’s son not only taking part but running a pool could harm what reputation the Den had. "Boys will be boys," he allowed. "I was never interested in Quidditch myself." Then, he had never attended Hogwarts, and that was likely the seed of most Quidditch obsession in the  _wizarding_  world. But, he had to keep her attention – he hadn’t seen a child like this in a long time, and his pack made sure to have its share of children. "Your father brags about your defense skill." Actually, her brother did, but his version sounded more flattering.  
  
To say that Erin wasn’t flattered by it would be a lie. She was very flattered, and very pleased. Of course, she knew that her parents were proud of her no matter what and all that rot, but if he was bragging, that was  _specifically_  proud, and that was very, very good. "It’s my favorite class," she said modestly, trying not to sound too pleased but finding it very hard.  
  
"Eh, so is he bragging about your marks or your skill?" Fenrir teased easily. He didn’t think he could step away from this conversation if he wanted to. The girl was too much a temptation, and only feet away.  
  
"Her skill," Jeremy said, clearly having caught the tail end of the conversation but easily deriving the discussion’s point. He held a savaged piece of leather in his hands, the binding of what used to be a copy of  _Pack: The Sociology of the Werewolf Pack_ , and gripped it in order to force a polite, unworried smile at the werewolf. "Oi, Fenrir, how’s the pack? I heard about Greyback, my condolences. Erin, you’re still here – is Dad – oh sod, he’s not still  _in_  there, is he? What’s he  _doing_?"  
  
"I  _know_  I’m still here," she said moodily to Jeremy, and rolled her eyes. "And I don’t know what he’s doing. He said he’d be right out, shoved  _this_  at me, and told me to wait out here," she added, waving the scrap parchment, and then frowned at her hand. There was ink all over it and she was going to have to wash her hands  _again_.  
  
 _Condolences._  Of course. Fenrir didn’t move, but gave the impression that he was stepping out of this conversation, allowing the children to interact. However, he kept regarding the two, his wolf considering them with a strange, focused sort of curiosity. It was rare that the man and the wolf within Fenrir did not agree, but this time, the wolf was leading the man. The draw began with the wolf, and the line of Erin’s collarbone. The boy was too much a wizard, too old, too independent. The girl was still a child.  
  
Jeremy had never been comfortable with Fenrir, and didn’t like the way the werewolf’s eye kept falling to his sister. Finally he dismissed it as a typical stereotype and presumption that even he could fall into. Werewolves were very different, but they weren’t  _monsters_  who preyed on children. "Well, Mum’s going to come down here herself and dump a plate over his head if he doesn’t come down there while she’s casting Warming Charms all over the potroast. I can’t blame her. I’m  _hungry_."  
  
"Me too," Erin said, more than a little impatient. "But he’s working. I don’t mean like regular working but working a lot. And he said he was coming out... Maybe she should come dump a plate over his head, it’d at least get his attention!"  
  
Jeremy considered, reconsidered, and left Erin with the odd bloody werewolf to go open his father’s door. "Dad," he said, peering past the edge of the door in case someone was in there, "Mum is going to kill you with the potroast if you don’t get back home soon. She didn’t say so," he added hurriedly, not wanting to be misquoted, "but that’s just a guess by me."  
  
"Death by potroast, it sounds like your mother’s style," Owen Curenton answered immediately without looking up, tearing a letter in half and disposing of it in the rubbish bin by his desk. He finally looked at Jeremy, and realized that he’d gotten sidetracked. Again. "... Oh. Oh dear," he sighed. " Is Erin still out there? Did she go home? What time is it, anyway?"  
  
"It’s – half-past eight, Dad." Jeremy sighed and leaned back on the threshold. He paused and nudged the door shut with his trainer, walking nonchalantly towards Owen’s desk. "Fenrir’s out there. He was talking to Erin. I think he wants to talk to you," he added in an offhand tone, so he wouldn’t make it sound as urgent as his gut made it feel.  
  
Half-past eight. Brighid really was going to kill him. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and smiled briefly at Jeremy. "All right then," he said, and stood. Trying to figure out how to explain this away to his wife, he took his cloak off the stand in the corner and made sure that there wasn’t anything still smoking in his rubbish bin (it had been known to happen). "This can be quick," he promised, ushering Jeremy out and preparing to lock the door behind him.  
  
Fenrir only carried on a vague conversation with Erin from then, attention focused on the closed door and the privacy within almost to the point that he forgot the girl, the sweet little girl. "Your brother’s not taking bets, I think," he said, and then the door opened. Jeremy barely had time to move out of the way before Fenrir pushed the door open, refusing to let Owen shut it. The grin on his face was nasty, the one he used on the doubting pack members, as his anger boiled to the surface. "Ah, Owen. We need to talk."  
  
Owen leaned heavily on the door when he was met with resistance, and steadied himself. He wasn’t particularly fond of the markedly predatory grin he was getting from Fenrir, but he pushed his unease aside. "Fenrir," he greeted, hoping this could be short, since not one but both of his children were now waiting for him.  
  
Fenrir stepped past Owen and turned to catch a last glimpse of the girl. Her eyes were still on him, so he flashed what he considered a kind smile to her as he leaned against the wall and waited for Owen to close the door. It was time for this conversation to finally occur, and oh, was he looking forward to it.  
  
Jeremy took a few steps back, more than a little unnerved at what this scene looked like, and grabbed Erin by the wrist. "Time to go. We’ll tell Mum Dad’s on his way."  
  
Erin didn’t realize that Jeremy was trying to pull her away until she felt her shoulder began to complain with the stretch, so entranced was she – entranced and maybe just a little bit horrified. "But -- "  
  
"Erin, go with your brother, and don’t give him trouble. I’ll be along soon," Owen told her calmly, and gave a significant look to Jeremy.  
  
She had a hard time not looking put out, but agreed. "Come on, then," she told Jeremy and began to pull him out the door, as if it had been her idea to go all along.  
  
Owen watched long enough to make sure that they were actually going out the door and not lingering on the staircase or something, because Erin did not usually capitulate that easily. But the front door slammed shut, and presumably he and Fenrir were alone. He turned back around into the office, trying not to think about how much he didn’t really want to have this conversation, not right now, at least.  
  
Fenrir fixed his gaze on Owen, cracking a smile when he saw that the boy had abandoned the leather binding of the destroyed book where it now lay on the floor outside of the room. He closed the door of the office. "I wonder why you waited until after my Father’s death to publish your little book," he said, managing to restrain the anger of his wolf for the time being.  
  
"I’m probably lucky it didn’t take longer," he said honestly, stacking parchments while he was still there, mostly busy work to keep his hands occupied. "It’s not purposeful," he added, somehow knowing that Fenrir didn’t really care, but continued anyway.  
  
"You could have made it very short," Fenrir said, watching Owen occupy himself to avoid keeping focus on the conversation at hand. It was very difficult for Fenrir to stand still, to be civil.  _This is your chance_ , the wolf told him. He tried not to sneer. "One page – ‘I lived in a nest of chimaeras and survived, aren’t I clever?’"  
  
"I suppose I could have, if that had been my intention and message when writing the book, yes," Owen answered frostily, looking up and determining that his activity was more than pointless, so he stopped. "Your Father knew and understood what I was trying to do with that book, he was a significant contributor to my understanding and now, the understanding of more."  
  
Fenrir couldn’t contain himself, the wolf, or his own anger any further and saw no need to; a snarl tore from his throat, a low threatening rumble. "You think you understand?" he asked with a dark laugh. "Oh, you think you can understand pack by surrounding yourself with packs, that you can tell everyone what  _pack_  means just because you observed? Pack is not just a gathering of werewolves – pack is not just a family – it’s  _everything._ "  
  
"Words only go so far," he conceded in reply. It was something he struggled with and partly a reason the book had turned out a bit longer than he’d originally intended it to be. "This is more insight than wizards have gotten before... ever. Understanding is what is needed." He somehow thought talking to Fenrir Greyback about understanding was going to be moot but he never liked saying he didn’t try.  
  
"Insight?  _Understanding_?" That was too much. Fenrir sneered, starting to fume, and as the wolf sensed the undertone and encouraged it, it started to overwhelm him. "You don’t understand and you can’t understand, not to even mention how you continue to tell the wizards exactly what they already thought of us. Animals – living in packs, filthy, jobless, cannibalistic – you’re a false prophet, Owen, and you’ve betrayed my kind."  
  
"I have done no such thing," he snapped in return, leaning forward on his desk. This was going to turn into a stalemate very quickly and very bitterly. "If you want to call it a betrayal so be it, walk out the door and don’t return. If I have not done good I have at least done no harm."  
  
Fenrir strode over to Owen, and slammed his hand down on the desk, jarring the parchment. He leaned on the desk, mocking Owen’s own posture. The wolf stared out of his eyes at the activist on the other side of the desk; the man had almost entirely lost control. "We can only hope that the wizards, as usual, ignore you completely." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "And Owen? We both dream of a better future, and want what’s best for my kind. The difference is that I’m right and you’re wrong."  
  
To say that Owen expected the book to fly off the shelves would be an exaggeration. Magical libraries would take it for the purposes of filling their shelves and taking up space. Some would buy it because it would make them look like they cared, but they wouldn’t read it. Then there would be those who would buy it because they were genuinely curious. They would be the ones who would read it, and Owen was optimistic that there would be more than a few of those, and word would spread. In any event, it wasn’t going to be rising to the top of the best-sellers list. "Maybe," he said slowly. "Maybe not."  
  
Fenrir stared at him, and gave him that same wicked, toothy grin – it unnerved many a wizard, but Owen Curenton was no normal wizard. "Don’t get too lost in dreams, Owen," he said matter-of-factly, straightening to a regular posture. "Your family misses you."  
  
"Then perhaps we can consider the discussion over for the night?" he said. He doubted that it would truly be over soon. "Undoubtedly you have pack matters to see to."  _That don’t involve denouncing me._  
  
"Of course." Fenrir gave a small shrug, withdrawing a few steps backward before he turned around, walking to the door. "I’m not the only one who feels this way. Be careful." He opened the door, shut it calmly, and left the Den -- it was time to eat, and it was time to think.  
  
Owen dropped into his desk chair uneasily. Surely…no. Fenrir was no longer a boy who couldn’t keep his temper. But still, he waited only a moment before taking his wand and locking the office door from the inside. Instead of making the walk tonight, he was going to Apparate. And he did so, Disapparating with an unfocused crack. His family was waiting for him.  
  


~*~

  
  
It was a tried and true formula, one that had yet to fail. Fenrir would make the decision, Laurel would make the arrangements, and she and Wesley would put them into practice. The house would be picked, the window would be open, and in the end the appetite of the wolf would always be satisfied.  
  
Tonight Laurel proved herself. Fenrir wasn’t one to often praise or appreciate one member of the pack over any other, but Laurel had made her mark tonight. There were others who kept control near the full moon almost as well, but Laurel was the most loyal, trustworthy, and courageous, the most willing to give anything for the good of the pack. He made a mental note to reward her when the dust settled.  
  
Tonight broke the pattern; tonight he was at the Den, in their highly reinforced full moon rooms. It was a waiting game; as the moonlight touched on the corner of the room, the werewolves began to bristle and transform. Fenrir crawled to the door, pacifying his struggling wolf until he could rap on the door. Laurel yanked the door open, and he scrambled out on his hands and knees.  
  
Laurel collapsed through the door, fur ripping through her skin and a growl through her throat. Fenrir shuddered to contain the wolf as he barred the door from the outside, but the wolf tolerated no more.  
  
 _We’ll show him._  
  
The wolf was happy to be free. It was angry, it was impatient, and it wanted blood, it wanted  _her_. Fenrir let it run, guiding it with soft mental touches if it strayed from the path it was meant to take.  
  
It guided the door open (yet another of Laurel’s preparations) with its muzzle, and crept up the stairs with Fenrir’s remarkable control at the helm.   
  
Erin Curenton was sleeping. Her head rested on a defence book she’d brought home from the Hogwarts library, and her wand held loosely in her hand, still shining with a  _lumos_  and casting a soft light on her face.   
  
She awoke immediately to the knowledge that something was terribly wrong. Her entire arm and shoulder felt like it was on fire, and she could feel her skin ripping with the force of... claws? Teeth? This was terrifying and not at all a dream or even a nightmare. This was real, and painful, and once her body hit the wooden floor of her bedroom, she began to scream. She screamed, and screamed, until she found herself literally unable to. Her throat would simply not let her, even after she tried to choke out a strangled cry.  
  
The wolf was not exceedingly concerned with self-control, but it did know fear, both that of the victim and of itself. Looking less the fearsome wolf than the rebellious wild dog, Fenrir dragged Erin down the stairs and through the door. The man inside wished she would continue screaming.  
  
Jeremy heard Erin screaming, and almost dismissed it as a nightmare until he heard the genuine panic in her voice and the sound of growling, and no, no, it couldn’t possibly be true, no bloody way -- "ERIN!" He ran towards her room and stumbled back as the hunched figure of a werewolf -- one of them, one of  _them_  attacking, how did they get out, no -- pulled her away. Fear rushing cold down his neck, he grabbed his wand from his bedside table and followed them. He had to save her, no matter what, he had to save her.  
  
Her head hit the stoop of the door with a  _thunk_ , and Jeremy panicked as he watched the werewolf -- no, he HAD TO DO SOMETHING. "Dad," he yelled in warning, before running after the predator and raising his wand to protect her. As the first syllable of "STUPEFY" spilled from his lips, the werewolf raised its head and met his eyes. Jeremy froze in fear.  
  
He didn’t know werewolves could pounce. Its full weight was on his chest, its breath stinking of Erin’s blood, hot on his face, blood on its teeth, and it took one moment to savor his immensely satisfying terror before it bit into his shoulder. He screamed.  
  
" _STUPEFY_!" Owen hexed the wolf, wand remaining ready. His brain was going at full tilt by the time he saw the werewolf on his son. He didn’t even register Erin’s ravaged and unconscious body halfway out the door. The only thing on his mind was  _save Jeremy, while you still can._  
  
The wolf, whoever it was, froze and collapsed where he was, on top of Jeremy. Owen’s first action was to get him off his son, which he did with a rather strong wave of his wand and into the nearby wall. He took in a sharp breath when he saw Jeremy on the floor, bitten and bleeding, but thankfully breathing. He kneeled by his head and touched him briefly before sighting Erin, in much worse condition. Now it was not only his brain that was going a million miles an hour, but his heart as well. "BRIGHID," he called up the stairs to his wife. "BRIGHID, IT’S SAFE, BUT COME  _NOW_."  
  
Brighid ran, nearly falling over the steps, expecting to see the worst, both of her children dead and Owen torn and bloody. The worst nightmares sitting in the forefront of her mind now were not far from what was in front of her. She took his hand, then stared at Erin and her hand flew to her mouth. "Owen," she choked out.  
  
"They need to go to St. Mungo’s," he told her, calmly as possible. He saw her eyes still on Erin and gently took her chin to make her face him until her eyes followed. "You need to take Erin. I’ll follow with Jeremy, right behind you. You can do that." It was certainty, not a question, it  _needed_  to be done.  
  
Brighid had always considered herself a strong woman, but approaching Erin... she looked so pale. The blood was dark on her clothes; Brighid breathed in with a shudder and found that she was crying. She pulled Erin up, wrapped her arms around her little girl and sank to her knees. She wasn’t strong enough. No one could be strong enough for this.  
  
"Apparate, love, you have to," he told her urgently. He could take one of them but not both, and he would be damned if he was going to choose who to take first. Maybe he was mad to think there was a chance Erin could survive something like that, but it would surely be worse to give up -- they wouldn’t even make it if he didn’t make her go first, he just knew it looking at Brighid.  
  
"Have to," she agreed shakily, hands still clutched around Erin and stained with her daughter’s blood. She clung to Erin, Erin’s body, and staring over at the rising and falling of Jeremy’s chest, managed to Apparate with shaking hands.  
  
They were gone -- to the hospital, where there would be help.  _Please let there be help_ , he thought, and glanced at the wolf again. The hex would last long enough for someone -- MLES, whatever -- to get there. "Hold on, Jeremy," he told his son, gathered him in his arms and Disapparated.


	3. Ends and Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gearing up, guys. :) Next chapter the groundwork will be thoroughly laid, and the fun really starts.

_The investigation of the crimes of Fenrir Greyback is pending. For once, the Curenton family declined to comment._  Trenton Williamson, "Werewolf Attack in Wales,"  _The Daily Prophet,_  6 January 1977.

 

_January 1977_

Rufus Scrimgeour began each day with a cold shower, a hearty breakfast, and a single-minded focus on getting into the Auror office and right to work. Today was the start of the third day that his job – generally described as tracking Dark Wizards and trailing Death Eaters – became that of petsitter and prosecutor to a dangerous, murderous werewolf. The importance of handling this situation well, however, was not lost on him. With every owl of concern from every frightened mother and angry citizen he'd received in the past two days, he knew this case could very well begin a panic among the public if left to a lesser Auror. Really, he was flattered. 

Reality lessened the appeal, unfortunately, as he went from writing practical platitudes in response to strategically picked letters of concern to preparing himself for another conversation with the werewolf. Most might not have involved themselves and appointed the more junior Aurors to deal directly with the prisoner in a situation that was as cut and dry as this, but that was why he was worthy of this stirring, controversial, and ultimately pointless and forgettable case. 

He tossed his quill aside and stood straight, with the pictures of the brother and sister in hand; the girl was unrecognisable, mauled, the boy pale and ripped to shreds but alive, but both were too young to have suffered in such a way. 

The delay was fortunate, as a memo flew to his desk as he stood in contemplation. He unfolded it without hesitation. 

_Auror Scrimgeour,_

_Mr Crouch requests your immediate presence in his office._

_Respectfully,  
Emily Bradley, Asst to the Department Head _

There was no need to be nervous. He made his way without hesitation to the desk outside of the Department Head's office, and simply nodded to Emily (a nice and comely girl) at his arrival, and patiently waited as she opened the door of Barty Crouch's office to announce "Auror Rufus Scrimgeour" before he entered. 

"Good morning, Mr Crouch," he began, head lowered in deference. 

Memos fluttered around Crouch's head, an owl waiting on his desk to carry back a response, but he took his time and prioritised as he spoke. "Yes, it's a fine morning, isn't it, Scrimgeour? I do think we're off to a good start today." 

Smalltalk – the bane of the Auror's existence, but politics was unavoidable, particularly with a man so skilled at it running the Department. "Yes, Mr Crouch, today is looking up. Auror Moody was already on the move when most of us were on our way to the office, that always bodes well for good news at the end of the day." 

Crouch looked up with approval. "Ah, yes, Auror Moody. A good man, fine Auror, a credit to our Department. I've heard you've benefited thoroughly from his leadership." 

Scrimgeour chose to bite his tongue. His opinion of Alastor Moody was not the usual sort of frightened respect, but most didn't know Alastor as well as he did. "Yes, Mr Crouch." 

Crouch took that as his cue to get to the point. "I summoned you here for a specific reason, Auror Scrimgeour. I'm to understand that you're currently working on the werewolf?" 

"Yes, Mr Crouch, and things are progressing as we expected, and as they should." 

He looked over his glasses at the Auror. "I would like to be briefed on the situation, and you're the man to do it. Can you spare some time?" 

It wasn't an offer any employee could refuse, naturally, but it was his professional duty to at least hesitate. "Sir, I wonder if there aren't more, ah, pressing matters than the werewolf – " 

As expected, Crouch waved that off. "This story is a nightmare, a horror story come to life and printed on the front page. Dark Creatures running amok, maiming innocent children, I'm sure you've received your share of anxious post from angry mothers..." 

"Yes, sir," Scrimgeour said, with feeling. 

Crouch gained a thin smile at that. "I expect you're handling it well. In any case, I feel the need to address and reassure the wizarding peoples of Britain that things are truly under control. There's a press conference this afternoon. You understand." 

"Yes, Mr Crouch." He assessed the situation and went on. "The werewolf is not registered with the Werewolf Registry, but that's a problem to be expected – many werewolves purposefully sequester themselves away from proper wizarding society. This presents a further problem, however. We don't have his name on record, and he refuses to give it." 

"What does he say for himself, then?" He leaned forward, looking over his glasses with a discerning look. 

Scrimgeour gave an unamused, grim sort of smile. "He says his name is Fenrir." 

"A clever little alias," Crouch scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "Nonsense. Well, what has he said under Veritaserum?" 

"He believes this. Brainwashed, perhaps, too far removed from normal wizarding society. We're working on him, sir, he is..." Scrimgeour hesitated to say it aloud. 

Crouch didn't have time for games. "Go on." 

Scrimgeour cleared his throat and stood straight. "He attacked the children on purpose, sir." 

"That's impossible," Crouch said, and busied himself with scribbling down a quick owl in answer to the head of the Department of Transportation about a later lunch. "Werewolves lose all semblance of reason at the full moon." 

There was nothing Scrimgeour could say to that; he didn't have the nerve to contradict the head of the Department, even with the truth. "It's only been two days, sir, you'll have a complete report by the end of the – " 

Crouch stood and stopped him with a wave of his hand. "No need, Auror Scrimgeour. If I might accompany you to his cell, my questions will all be answered." 

Scrimgeour couldn't have been more stunned if Crouch had hopped on the desk and begun to tapdance. "Mr Crouch, all due respect, this might well be a waste of your time." 

"This is the crisis of the day," Crouch said, patiently as though explaining to a misunderstanding child, "and I would like to confront it, solve it, and be on with the real business of thwarting the Dark Lord's designs. After you, Scrimgeour, unless you have a more compelling argument." 

Scrimgeour deferred, kept his mouth shut, and ordered his two junior Aurors along with them as they began the long walk to the holding cells. The third door led to a specially reinforced cell used to hold Dark Creatures, and could never be mistaken for a cell meant to hold a dyed-in-the-wool illegal potion ingredient dealer. 

Much to his surprise, Crouch wore that thin smile again at seeing the daunting door. "I recall there being a long debate about whether or not Araminta Meliflua was best held in this cell rather than one of the others," he said. "Go on, open it." 

Scrimgeour undid the many charms and took out the key, nodding to the two junior Aurors to take out their wands and flank him as he opened the door. "Keep your distance," he warned Crouch in an undertone. "We aren't as certain as we'd like about the irons." 

"Yes, of course." Crouch strode inside, followed by the Aurors, and looked down at the huge, ragged man. The werewolf was easily twice his size and young, even if it was difficult to tell underneath the overgrown hair and facial hair. 

He flicked at his sleeve with one long yellow fingernail and eyed the new arrivals. "Brought some fresh meat for me this time, eh, Scrimgeour? Little early for lunch." 

"I'm afraid we have no more time for your games and riddles." Scrimgeour was unmoved. "What is your name, sir?" 

"Fenrir," he repeated. "Educated at  _Hogwarts_ , and he can't remember my name -- " 

Scrimgeour set his jaw. "A very clever alias, sir, but I need to know your  _real_  name, your  _legal_  name, as a matter of public record." 

"Fenrir is my  _real_  name, Scrimgeour, I don't know how many times I have to say it for you to understand." 

"Mr ... Fenrir," Crouch interrupted, stern but polite. "My name is Bartemius Crouch, sir, and I am the head of – " 

"I know who you are," the werewolf said, scathing. " _Everyone_  knows who you are." 

"The charges you are facing are very serious, and I'm afraid that you are in no position to halt our investigation. Now,  _I_  will ask you again, what is your name, your full name, first and last, that your parents gave you?" 

"My  _Father_  named me Fenrir," he snarled, and spat on the floor. 

Crouch's lip curled in disdain. "And your father's name?" 

A look of arrogant pride immediately eclipsed his disdain for the wizard. "Greyback." 

Crouch turned back to Scrimgeour. "Fenrir Greyback, there you have it." Nonsense, of course, but they had known from the start that the werewolf was delusionally mad, so such a name fit the horror story well. 

"Yes, Mr Crouch," Scrimgeour said mildly as he took note of this. 

"I like that son of yours, Crouch." 

Everything was still for a moment as the atmosphere in the room perceptibly changed, with the werewolf now more smirking than cryptic, his mocking gaze on the Department Head who was frozen in place. "Excuse me?" Crouch asked, anger slipping into his tone. 

Fenrir went on, relishing the words. "Too old for my tastes, I think, too selfish and fat-headed at that age, but doesn't mean I wouldn't enjoy a bite if I had the chance – " 

"That's enough," Crouch snapped. "Scrimgeour -- " 

"Same age as Curenton's boy, isn't he, or nearly? Too bad, I meant to keep the girl, sweet girl she was,  _so_  sweet – " 

"Greyback, that is  _all_ ," Scrimgeour started, advancing with his wand raised. 

Fenrir gave a harsh tug at the irons on his arms, which creaked at his strength, and Scrimgeour didn't even blink. Fenrir grinned. "She had the sweetest smile, but smart as a whip. I wanted her, not the boy. World doesn't  _need_  another Curenton like Owen, do they? Tell me you're not  _relieved_ , wizards, or at least amused – Owen Curenton's out of your hair now, with me to thank." 

Scrimgeour was, as always, unmoved by the werewolf's raving attempt at intimidation. "I doubt it. Now that's enough babbling from you, I won't have you waste – " 

Crouch raised his hand to stop the Auror from going on. "You meant to hurt those children?" he asked the werewolf. 

Fenrir contemplated that, and looked up at them. "Children are our future," he said. "And  _Owen_  can't be trusted with them. Can you?" 

Abruptly, Crouch turned to Scrimgeour and away from the werewolf. "I want a report on my desk within the hour. Let's get this over and done with by the end of the month, Scrimgeour, I expect nothing less." 

"When's lunch?" Fenrir called over, with a wide, yellow grin. 

Scrimgeour ushered the others out and turned to the werewolf. "Whenever we damn well feel like it, now keep quiet," he said, and shut the door. He sent the junior Aurors on their way and looked to Mr Crouch, who looked as shaken as Scrimgeour had ever seen him in a decade. "As you can tell, Mr Crouch, at best he is not in his right mind. It's our duty to remove this sort of danger to society, to the children." 

Crouch shook his head. "Save it for the report," he said curtly. "Within the hour, Scrimgeour. There's no more time to waste. We have a war to win." 

At that, Scrimgeour watched the most powerful man in wizarding Britain walk away, and locked the door behind them. One report, one trial, and one execution, and Magical Law Enforcement could get back to the regular sort of madmen and the fight that actually mattered.

~*~

  
  
The funeral was small, simple, and went about as well as the funeral of an eleven year old girl could be expected to go. Brighid managed to fend off two reporters at the onset without resorting to any sort of act of violence, and she was there to soothe her son, which was enough for her. Jeremy had particular difficulties leaving the hospital only three days after the attack, and his condition obviously only worsened by being freed to go to his sister's funeral, so Brighid couldn't help but dote on him. He looked so pale, so thin, like he was suffering from an exhaustion that no amount of rest could save him from. The way he looked terrified her, a constant reminder of how easily she could lose them both.   
  
Owen held one of her hands and her other gripped Jeremy's as Damocles Belby, Owen's best friend and Jeremy's godfather, gave Erin's eulogy. Halfway through Brighid felt Jeremy start to shake, and it broke her heart, but she couldn’t blame him. She just listened, and sobbed, and by the end it was just a matter of breathing in and out. Her little girl was dead, her world was destroyed, but at least her son was alive.   
  
She shook someone's hand and took in the mostly empty room with an equally empty gaze as the service ended, comforted only by her husband's presence beside her. "Nell did a good job," she said after a moment. "Of course, she's been taking care of me since we both could walk, suppose it's not very surprising." Here she was, at Erin's funeral, chattering and joking about her sister. Insanity.  
  
The way Owen saw it, Brighid could use a little taking care of these days, and while he didn't know that he'd ever say it in all seriousness, Nell had been a godsend. "Your sister did very well," Owen agreed, and pressed a kiss to Brighid’s hair. He caught a look at Jeremy, and watched him carefully for a moment -- he was white, very white.  
  
"Yes -- yes, oh, she's back, I'll thank her again – " Brighid reminded herself to breathe again, and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "And Damocles did well."  
  
"He did," he said with a slow nod. What else was there to say? It was a fitting tribute to his girl, one that shouldn't have had to happen. It was like a nightmare, except nobody was going to wake up. "Thank her for all of us."  
  
She nodded, slowly withdrew with a few steps back, and forced herself to leave Owen's side for what was probably the first time all day.  
  
Owen bit back a sigh and rubbed his forehead. He glanced back at Jeremy, unable to help but be concerned. He'd hardly said two words since they picked him up this morning – then again, he'd spent the better part of the last two days mostly unconscious. "Jeremy?"  
  
His name. He could answer to that. He could get his head to clear for at least a second long enough to  _answer_. "Yeah?" he forced out, and with the brief instant of control and clarity he could feel himself in a cold sweat.  
  
"Just making sure you're still with us." He tried to keep it light, but it was proving difficult. He reached out to touch his son on the head, and was momentarily shocked – he was drenched. He immediately cursed himself; why hadn't he been paying attention? "Jeremy," he repeated.  
  
Now he had control, now he could speak, so he leapt on the opportunity. "I – I can't – why can't I – they never say it's like this Dad," he babbled. His voice sounded far too loud to his ears but it wasn't nearly as loud as his mind.  
  
Owen smoothed Jeremy's dark hair like he was six again instead of sixteen. It didn't occur to him immediately what was going on, although it perhaps should have. Three days after the infecting bite, the wolf was making its presence known. "It's okay," he said. "Deep breaths."  
  
Jeremy barely felt his father's touch but the wolf  _flinched_  and he jerked back hard enough to start the pain in his infected shoulder again.  _He's not our father, he isn't one of us,_  it spat. The misery, the confusion and the sudden flash of pain was enough to force tears into his eyes. "It – no – I can't, it won't," he said, breathing hard.  
  
He withdrew his hand – was he ever going to be able to touch Jeremy again? A hug, a handshake,  _anything?_  – but otherwise did not budge an inch. "You can," Owen said calmly, much more calmly than he felt. "Slow, deep breaths," he repeated.  
  
He obediently tried, slowed his breaths to something near normal, and attempted to draw in one deliberate breath that entered so sharply it hurt. It was the fight for control in his own head he had to focus on.  _His_  head. Not this other thing, the wolf. This was his head.  _No. Mine. My body. You wait._  
  
Then he closed his eyes hard and focused on the pain in his shoulder, on the knowledge that his sister's coffin was only feet away with her little midget firstie body inside it, on the fact that he would never see Hogwarts again, and breathed out. And it was there, but quiet. He breathed again, and barely kept from breaking down out of exhaustion right where he sat.  
  
"There's a lad," he said quietly, swallowing the emotion balled in his throat and trying not to be awash in the ever persistent guilt.  
  
"I'm tired," Jeremy muttered, and sank back in the chair out of the posture of the calm, controlled grieving brother to the much more comfortable position of invalid.  
  
"I expect you are," he said. He was tired too, but out of sleepless nights and the emotionally exhausting trials that had been placed before them.  
  
"What is going on?" Brighid finally asked after hovering for a good few seconds. "Jeremy, are you feeling all right?"  
  
Owen looked up at Brighid. "He's worn out," he answered for his son. "And it..." It somehow seemed unnecessary at the moment to describe it in full, Brighid could hear about it later. "It's been a trying day," he concluded.  
  
She sat on the other side of her son and touched his hair tenderly, drawing him into her arms when he shivered. "Oh, we should get you back to the hospital," she soothed. "Just a bit longer, love, and it'll all be fine."  
  
Owen stared ahead at Erin's casket – closed, as even cleaned of the blood she wasn't fit for a viewing – and sighed heavily. It was perhaps for the best that everyone’s memory of their Erin would be with a throat.  _Deep breaths,_  he silently reminded Jeremy, sorry that was the best advice that he could him right now.   
  
Brighid held onto Jeremy as tightly and desperately as she'd held onto Erin three days earlier, just glad to feel him warm and alive in her arms, though he clung to her like a child. When he rested against her, calm, taking even breaths, she looked up at Owen. "Let's go."  
  
He swallowed, and looked to Brighid and Jeremy, what was left of his little family. "Yes," he agreed, and stood. "They're waiting on us, I expect."  
  
"Are you ready?" she murmured to her son, only withdrawing when he nodded. She caught Owen's eye for a moment, but looked away, unable to speak in platitudes or comfort while her family was falling apart. "Come along, love," she whispered to Jeremy, carefully helping him up.  
  
God, his son looked like the walking dead. Owen kept a hand on him as well, just on his arm. The only reason he felt secure about Jeremy being there in the first place was because Damocles was there as well. He silently led them outside into the January morning, on a short walk to where Erin would be laid to rest.  
  


~*~

  
  
Remus suppressed a yawn as he wandered downstairs, and finally gave up the fight as the yawn overpowered him. It was fairly early in the morning yet – late for Remus, though, who was habitually an early riser. The house was quiet, but then, there was nothing new there. When he was younger, Remus often wondered how much noisier it would be if he were not an only child. As he grew older, he grew to like the quiet, though, not only because he was himself a quiet person, but the wolf (it was the only way he could think of it) much preferred it to the cacophony of being surrounded by wizards.  
  
The house still held a little bit of the early morning chill, and Remus shivered slightly as he stepped from the rug in the corridor to the tile in the kitchen. Breakfast dishes were still on the table along with the newspaper. The only thing out of place in the Lupin kitchen was Nichole, or more exactly, the expression on her face. She stood at the sink and stared out the window at the yard, seemingly deep in some kind of thought – and a disturbing thought, from the look of it. "Mum?" he asked, concerned.  
  
Nichole Lupin snapped out of it, her head whirling around to glance at her son. For a moment Remus thought she looked as though she'd been caught at something she shouldn't be doing, but chalked it up to nothing when she smiled. "Morning Remus," she said and kissed him on the cheek.  
  
He returned it, adding, "Morning." He looked at the table again. "Did Dad go to work yet?"  
  
"Not yet, he's in the study," she said, with an odd tone to her voice. Her smile faded slightly to something more tinged with worry. "Go ahead and sit down, you need to finish packing before you head back and no one can do that on an empty stomach."  
  
Well, there was toast. He sat down at the table, picked up a slice and began to spread marmalade on it. He also snagged the paper from the place next to him, where his father sat. Things were quiet as he breakfasted, his mother busying herself. He scanned article after article; Ministry said this, someone else said that. It was all quite in the ordinary until one article caught his eye. He dropped the toast and picked the newspaper up with both hands. "Mum," he said suddenly, "it's the..."  
  
"The Curentons?" she said. "Yes, we – we saw," she finished as casually as possible. If Remus saw her face he would have seen the perturbed look return to it, but he was entranced on the newspaper. The Curentons did not live far away, and Owen Curenton's Den was easily just as close. Given Remus's condition, it had been something unavoidable but at the same time avoided. Even though Remus knew it was there, it was an unspoken rule that Lupins were to have as little to do with anything pertaining to werewolves and things related as possible.   
  
After he'd read the article, he uneasily put the newspaper down and looked at his plate. His stomach turned and he didn't so much feel like eating anymore. The girl had died, they said. He looked up when his father strode into the room. Alexander Lupin was not normally an agitated man – quiet, yes, but his silence now was not an aspect of personality, instead more akin to irritation and keeping his mouth closed for fear of saying something he'd regret. Remus straightened, ignored the jump of the wolf, and said, "Dad, did you see? The – "  
  
He picked up the abandoned coffee cup from its place on the table. "Curentons, yes," he said so sharply that Remus didn't reply further. "I should go, I'm late," he added, moving to kiss Nichole and put the now empty coffee mug in the sink. He went back to leave through the back door and Disapparate, and looked back to Remus. Remus wished that he could read the look on his father's face, one so marked by so many different things as to render it puzzling. "Have a good term," he told him, not unkindly, and left.  
  
The kitchen was silent for a long moment until Nichole spoke up again. "Well. Big day, Remus, d'you want something else with the toast?"  
  
Remus looked at the plate again, and at the newspaper. "I'm not really hungry, I don't think," he said.  
  
His mother approached behind him and rested her chin on the top of his head. "Nothing's going to happen to you," she said softly, with such love that his breath caught in his throat. "Help me with breakfast dishes, then we can finish packing and get you on your way to London."  
  
He nodded his agreement and she kissed his hair before withdrawing. Remus picked up the newspaper again and folded it neatly, leaving it on a corner of the table. They washed, rinsed, and dried the dishes in silence, with each lost in their own private thoughts, disturbed by the morning's news.  
  


~*~

  
  
Julia stared at the headline of  _The Daily Prophet_  with blank shock. Well, it wasn’t really the headline, but it was a nice sized article on page three, and there was a rather bold statement at the top:  _Activist Family Tragedy._  Son bitten. Daughter dead. Father on the defensive. Mother mentioned only in reference to her children. All bereft, a family torn apart by a werewolf called Fenrir Greyback.  
  
She read the article several times, and then each paragraph several times in a row, and then the article again. Breakfast activity continued around her, her younger brother Daniel reaching across her several times without reprimand (unusual, but not worthy of remarking on), older siblings Michael and Abigail were talking animatedly, but none of their words managed to penetrate the shock that was tightly wrapped around her brain.  
  
Her mother, finished with the most recent issue of  _Herbology Quarterly_ , then asked, “Are you finished with the paper yet, love?”  
  
“I’m reading,” Julia answered blankly.  
  
“You’ve been reading for the past twenty minutes,” Moira Frobisher said gently. “Maybe I can trade you?” she asked, beginning to hint at the exchange by pushing the magazine at her and trying to slide the newspaper out from under her hands.  
  
“ _No,_ ” she yelled, refusing to let the newspaper move. Her cheeks reddened when she realized she’d brought the breakfast table to a complete stand still. All three of her siblings were now quiet, staring at her. “I’m reading,” she repeated in almost a whisper.  
  
Surprised and confused, Moira blinked. “Okay…” she said. “What are you reading?”  
  
“Article,” she murmured. She stared at the newspaper, none of the words making sense anymore, just a jumble of black letters on a white paper. One sentence jumped out at her.  _As for Fenrir Greyback’s fate, one need look no further back than 1967 for the last werewolf that committed such a heinous crime._  “There’s a werewolf going to get Dementor’s Kiss for killing Erin Curenton and biting Jeremy,” she said, the words spilling out like water out of an overflowing cup.  
  
Julia looked across the table at Michael. He looked just about the same as he ever did, a guarded expression on his face with no intention of letting it down. They were the ones who shouldn’t be here. They’d never been made to feel any such way, of course, but it was a deeper feeling, that they were being denied something. She knew he felt it, too. “Going flying,” he said abruptly, jumping up from his chair and going out the back door before anyone could stop him.  
  
Nobody spoke as Michael left, and Moira shook her head slightly when she heard the door slam. “Just like his mother,” she murmured, not loud enough to make it an official part of the conversation but loud enough so that the people at the table heard. There were some things that the family didn’t talk about or mention. A lot of it was surrounded around the fact that Julia and Michael weren’t really Moira and Matthew Frobisher’s children, but the children of Matthew’s brother Joshua, and why they were there. They fit into the family neatly, and they closely resembled one another, so it was easy to believe that the four Frobisher children were one family, rather than two and two.  
  
Abby pushed her leftover bangers and mash around her plate awkwardly, and Daniel gnawed on a piece of bacon. Julia stared at the paper again. She found it difficult to equate leaving the table at an uncomfortable moment with the unspeakable offense of walking out on your children and husband. If they both had subpar coping skills, so what? Michael would be back in an hour or two, after eleven years it was a safe bet that Mairwyn Frobisher was not coming back.  
  
“Isn’t the Curenton bloke your boyfriend?” Daniel asked, breaking the silence. Five very long seconds ago, Julia would have given anything for it to end, and now she wished Daniel had never spoken.  
  
“No,” she answered, jumping up from her chair. “Going upstairs,” she added over her shoulder, making a beeline for the staircase.  
  
“She wanted him to be her boyfriend,” Daniel said as an authority on the subject, having teased her about it repeatedly. “Too bad, now he won’t be around.”  
  
“Eat your toast, Daniel,” Moira told him, folding up the newspaper, having quite lost her interest in reading it.  
  


~*~

  
  
His hospital bed was comfortable, there were Healers on call for food and painkillers whenever he wanted or needed them, and the end of holidays didn't mean a looming return to classes and homework for him, but Jeremy couldn't have been unhappier than he was trapped in a comfortable hospital bed at St Mungo's. Really, his own firm mattress, mum's stew and a simple Dreamless Sleep potion would've been enough for him. Though the Healers seemed to try to make it standable, there was no denying that right now he was just as imprisoned in his hospital bed as Fenrir Greyback was imprisoned at the Ministry.   
  
His mother was gone for the day after a constant vigil at his side, and, when he'd been foolish enough to think he could get some peaceful sleep or good conversation with his dad, a man from the Werewolf Registry arrived. He introduced himself to Owen as Elliot Pittiman without actually introducing himself to Jeremy at all. He had no problem with that. To acknowledge him would be admitting that this man was there for him, and that he was in fact a werewolf.   
  
"Would you lay on your back, Jeremy?" Pittiman sent the boy a polite smile and withdrew the wand from his pocket. "This is simply procedure, a regular tracking charm, and so no need to worry about your privacy. Only in the case of... mishaps do we actually pursue our werewolves."   
  
Their werewolves. It offended the latent activist in Jeremy, but he didn't say a word, just rolled over to allow the charmswork to begin.  
  
Owen couldn't make himself believe that mishaps occurred, not now. He'd always thought that things happened with a reason, an end to them, although in this case he despaired of finding one. No reason for Jeremy to be bitten and have all the doors that had once been open to him slam shut, no reason for Erin to be dead and in the ground. Nothing that could come instead could possibly be worth it.  
  
No end, but he knew clearly enough that he was the cause. When it was found that Fenrir was responsible for the attack, there was no doubt in Owen's mind that it was deliberate, planned, and vengeful. It was a crime intended to take his very heart and slowly kill him – and it was working. He tried to send Jeremy a slight smile, but couldn't stand to see the hopelessly blank expression on his face, and so resumed his pacing at the side of the bed.  
  
"I can tell it works so well," Jeremy said acidly. The wolf sensed the surge of resentment and moved within him, pressing for control. Pittiman gave him a warning look, but the wolf didn't back down and Jeremy let it seize the reins. It was easier not to fight. "But why don't you just do your job so someone in the fucking Werewolf Registry can say as much, all right?"  
  
"Jeremy," Owen started. He'd meant for it to be a warning, but it came out virtually toneless, more tired than anything else.  
  
"The Werewolf Registry does what it can." Pittiman spoke up in defence of his employer, though his tone was strung with tension masking the panic of someone who had been through this sort of awkward situation more than once before. "We do what we can with what we have, and Mr Scamander – "  
  
"This isn't what the Registry was made for," Jeremy interrupted. "This isn't what  _Newt Scamander_  wanted and it's stupid to say otherwise, I don't know who the hell you think you're fooling."  
  
"We know what you do," Owen said flatly, and fought the absurd urge to laugh. It wasn't really funny, but an employee of the Registry was trying to justify their operations to  _him?_  "Just... finish, please," the silent addendum to that being  _and then you can go._  
  
The charm was complex, but Pittiman was a professional with the strong desire to get out of there, and finished without delay soon enough. "Here," he said with a bit of a sigh as he held the envelope out to Owen, "is the paperwork, I'm sure you know everything involved, if you have any questions, you know to direct them to, ah, Mr Twiddle. I'm sorry for your loss," he added before leaving.  
  
Owen nodded, accepted the envelope and just held it for a moment. He did indeed know what was involved, knew what every scrap of parchment was going to say. He set it down on the table at the side of the bed delicately, as though it was something that would otherwise explode. "Damocles said you would likely be able to come home today," he started, and cleared his throat. "Barring any complications with the wound itself."  
  
"You mean I might actually see him?" Jeremy didn't exactly expect his godfather to be thrilled that he was a werewolf now, but he'd been in the hospital since the attack and he could count the times he'd seen Healer Damocles Belby on one hand. "But, good, I guess."  
  
"If we'd known what it takes to get his attention..." he answered wryly, unable to keep still as he resumed his pacing. "He said he'd be in before lunch, anyway."  
  
"If you want to get out of here, you can," he said, practically mumbling as his father made an attempt to wear a rut into the floor. "I mean, I wouldn't blame you or something."  
  
Owen stopped in his tracks again at the end of the bed, and gave Jeremy a look. "I'm staying," he said, very mildly for the look he was giving him. A couple more steps, slowly. "What d'you suppose your mum and Aunt Nell are up to?"  
  
"Do you want a thoughtful, nice answer, or what I really think they're up to?" Jeremy returned, in much the same tone.  
  
Owen had a feeling as to what his wife and sister-in-law were up to that day, but he didn't want to dwell on it. Brighid was his grounding force, seeing her devastation was wearing hard on him, and he was left feeling shiftless and helpless. "Surprise me, I have time," he sighed.  
  
"I think Aunt Nell's getting her drunk." Jeremy shifted in his bed, compensating for his shoulder. "Just watch, she'll be two to three sheets to the wind once she gets here."  
  
He considered it, and finally nodded. "You're probably not wrong about that," he said, and bit back another sigh.  
  
Jeremy looked at his dad for a moment, the wolf calming, backing down, and he started, "Dad –  " only to halt at hearing someone open the door to his room.  
  
Owen looked up too, at the woman who was looking back at them. He eyed her, she was looking bright-eyed, eager, and...  _young._  Older than Jeremy by a few years, but undoubtedly young. "May we help you?" he asked warily.  
  
"Mr Curenton," she began, approaching him and offering her hand, "I thought you might remember me, I contacted you about a short human interest piece for  _The Daily Prophet_ , my name is Mary Brookstanton? Oh, I don't know that we did meet in person, well, it's a pleasure to meet you."  
  
"I've been busy," he said dryly, and reluctantly shook her hand briefly. "We did not meet – Miss Brookstanton, this is... an inappropriate time and place to discuss it – " In addition to the fact that he knew what human interest looked like to the  _Prophet_ , and didn't have an interest in perpetuating the myth of it.  
  
"I was hoping to talk to your son, actually, if you wouldn't mind. There's been a great outpouring of sympathy for your family, and I'm sure people would want to hear your story, Jeremy," Mary said to the boy, encouraging but gentle. "And your opinions, Mr Curenton, about the consequences Fenrir Greyback is likely to suffer for this act."  
  
Even the Ministry charmsworker hadn't made him or the wolf feel so threatened, and Jeremy lost control so thoroughly he could barely find words. "You're not allowed in here," he snapped.  
  
A resounding no, then. "Please leave, Miss Brookstanton; if you don't go I shall have you removed," Owen said, moving to stand in between her and Jeremy.  
  
"We can arrange a better time, maybe once he's out of the hospital, whenever would be most comfortable," Mary suggested, looking over Owen's shoulder and nudging her glasses up her nose to send Jeremy another friendly smile.  
  
"No," Owen replied firmly. "This family isn't interested. Goodbye."  
  
She took that in stride. "Do you have any comment, then, on Fenrir Greyback's trial?"  
  
"No." Nothing he wanted to share with everyone who read the  _Prophet_ , he was barely able to dwell on everything that had occurred for the sake of sorting it out. "Good day."  
  
As her high heels clicked away, Jeremy breathed out slowly and sank into the bed, away from his father only because his right shoulder was the mauled one. "Haven't seen  _The Prophet_  recently," he said, half into the pillow.  
  
He pushed the door closed, with a little more force than was probably necessary. "You've seen it before, I'm sure you can imagine the sorts of things they're saying," he replied evenly.  
  
Really, Jeremy hated politics, but when it was in your blood, there was no use fighting it. "How many shots at us?"  
  
No one had actually said that they'd had it coming, but the implication remained. "Enough." He turned back to face Jeremy, and resumed his pacing. "We haven't said anything to them, other than basically what you just heard. They're basically sticking to the legal angles of it."  
  
"What a great defence there could be at the trial. 'Well, yes, he did kill the girl and bite the boy, but they  _were_  Curentons, so it's fifty-fifty.'"  
  
If he had been feeling more like himself, Owen might have laughed, but he didn't feel like himself. He chortled and said, "That's right, give the defence a leg up. Like they can't use it."  
  
Jeremy smiled wryly into his pillow. "We're kidding ourselves to think anyone will show up, though."  
  
"They'll show up," he said quietly. "It's been ten years since they had a werewolf trial, and they're usually the most sensational... even if they ignore werewolves every other time, they find they can't look away when one has committed a crime."  
  
The idea made him sick, but Fenrir deserved it. "I meant, no one will show up in defence. Not that they should, not against him." He swallowed. "That night he threatened you, Dad...."  
  
"He has no defence," he said in agreement, not really acknowledging his last remark – he didn't know what to say to it.  
  
"The night he threatened you he was looking at Erin."  
  
This was not conducive to him breathing. He exhaled steadily and forced himself to remain calm. "What do you mean he was looking at Erin, Jeremy?"  
  
"You were staying in the office late, Mum sent Erin up to the Den, then me. When I got there, I – " He couldn't believe how well he remembered this. "I found a copy of your book ripped into confetti when I went upstairs. And when I came downstairs, Fenrir was talking to Erin. And looking at her."  
  
Owen did not speak for a long time, taking it all in. Fenrir had... a history, everyone in the Greyback pack knew it, members of the pack had left over it, but no one talked about it. He'd known as well. "I see," he said finally.  
  
"You know it's not your fault, Dad," Jeremy said, staring ahead at the wall.  
  
He didn't really think he did know that. He did blame himself. So he said nothing.  
  
A knock on the door saved him, and it opened a bit as Damocles Belby stuck his head in. "Good day, Curentons," he said, when Owen indicated for him to come in.  
  
"Arguable," was Jeremy's immediate response, but he did turn to face him though it twinged his shoulder.  
  
"Always an argument with you people," he said, picking up Jeremy's chart from where it was hooked at the foot of the bed and began to read. "Did Brighid step out?"   
  
"Nell's with her. Jeremy thinks they're getting drunk," Owen added conversationally.  
  
"That always bodes well," he answered, replacing the chart and turning to Jeremy. "How's the shoulder? Better, worse?"  
  
Jeremy thought about it. "It still hurts when I move it the wrong way, but that's to be expected, right? They don't heal."  
  
"To be expected," he agreed. It hadn't ever really occurred to him he'd treat either of his friend Owen's children, who he considered like his own, in his field of specialty. "It fades with time, the pain, so long as the wound's kept clean. Let's have a look, shall we?"  
  
Jeremy swallowed and nodded, pulling the shoulder of his robes down to bare the cursed wounds. He looked up at Damocles instead of at his shoulder, what he could see of them. "They came and put a tracking charm on me today," he said. "A man from the Werewolf Registry. Then he felt it necessary to tell us how the Werewolf Registry works."  
  
His mouth quirked upward as he examined Jeremy's shoulder. "Yeah? And what did you tell him?"  
  
"Less than you'd think, and less than we probably would have liked," Owen broke in, dryly.  
  
"Oh, and the press got in, you should look into that," Jeremy went on, doing his valiant best to ignore what Damocles was doing.  
  
Damocles frowned. "The Welcome Witch has been known to... well, they shouldn't have been up here, I'm sorry. Can you raise your arm for me, as high as you can?" he asked, demonstrating.  
  
Jeremy stretched until he winced audibly and felt the wolf complain.  _My body, not yours_ , he told it. "I remember her, Dad, she was snooping around the Den one day. We caught her interviewing a pack leader who was there for the night."  
  
"Now they're growing them persistent and sneaky as well as underhanded and roundabout," Owen said as Damocles continued to check Jeremy's shoulder and his range of movement. "I suppose we'll have to talk to your mother, keep a closer watch –  she said her name was Brookstanton?"  
  
"Mary Brookstanton, with the horn-rimmed glasses and the ponytail," Jeremy added. "You know me, I'm the Den's personal security and law enforcement."  
  
"No one does a better job," he returned with a slight smile. "Or works for beans."  
  
"Now that you've said that, you're going to have to put him on payroll, Owen," Damocles warned him.   
  
"Good one. You're a funny man," he replied.  
  
"No werewolf expects a paying job," Jeremy said under his breath.  
  
This elicited another sharp look from Owen, but Damocles spoke first. "You're healing well. Better than I'd thought, actually," he admitted. "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to go home as soon as we can draw up the paperwork and get it signed."  
  
"Really?" Jeremy asked, warily. This was hard to believe, since he didn't feel much better than yesterday.  
  
"Really," Damocles said. "You're sensible, and I don't foresee any problems with the wound. Being at home will do more good than harm at this point."  
  
"Wish Mum was here to hear this. Maybe we should sneak me out and give her a heart attack," Jeremy suggested wryly.  
  
"Yeah, and then we'll  _both_  be in trouble," Owen answered in a similar tone.  
  
"No, no," Jeremy answered, correcting, "all  _three_  of us would be in trouble."  
  
"Yeah, and I never do anything wrong," Damocles said dryly. "You two, always getting me in trouble – I'll get the release forms done up, unless you have any questions."  
  
Jeremy paused, then just asked. "It's not going to get worse, is it? At the full moon."  
  
"It won't reopen," he answered. "And as long as you avoid... I don't know, cleaning it out with a rusty nail, it should keep healing. If it gets worse, or if you feel like something's wrong then you can drop me a line. I'll check it out."  
  
"And – the full moon, I just." He swallowed, and pretended his dad wasn't there. "I've seen people come out of it really badly."  
  
Damocles now understood the reason for not treating family members. It was hard to keep professional. "Some do," he said. "And you may. But it's different for everyone."  
  
Jeremy put his face in his hands. "Can we just get the release papers?" he mumbled.  
  
"Sure," he said, picking up the chart again and making a brief note. "I'll bring those right back for you, Owen."  
  
"Thanks," he said. Damocles slipped out the door again, and left father and son alone.  
  
As soon as the door closed, Jeremy spoke. "It's my fault. Not yours."  
  
Owen looked back at Jeremy then. "Jeremy, you – you can't expect that – it's not," he finished firmly. "It's Fenrir's fault."  
  
"I had my wand, I could've done something."  
  
"You can't think it of that way," he said.   
  
"It's  _true_ , Dad, I froze up – "  
  
"You're both children, this was more than deliberate on his part and you shouldn't – "  
  
The door opened again, and Owen cut himself off. Damocles held up the release forms, pinned to a clipboard. "Signature?" he said, and Owen held his hand out for the clipboard and quill.  
  
Jeremy propped himself up, sat up, then swung his legs out from the bed. "Finally," he said in a deadpan, stretching again.  
  
Owen banished Jeremy's shoes from the small wardrobe to just under him, and scribbled his name on the appropriate line, and initialed on the next. "Anything else?" he asked.   
  
"Satisfied at this end. Be nice to Brighid," he said, taking the forms back.   
  
"She wouldn't know what to do with herself if we were nice," Jeremy interjected as he put his shoes on, restraining his wince and the wolf as he leaned to tie his shoes.  
  
"Or highly suspicious," Owen said, picking up the Registry papers that Mr. Pittiman had left behind for them and slipping them into his pocket. "Thank you. For everything," he added to Damocles.  
  
Damocles tried a smile for his friend, but it had been a trying time. "It's nothing," he said. "Can I see you both out?"  
  
"I think we can find our way out," he replied.  
  
Jeremy just stood by his father. "Thanks," he added to Damocles, awkward but genuine. "Hopefully I won't see you for a bit."  
  
"Not too soon," he promised, and smiled. "See you later," he added, and left with a wave to them.  
  
Owen sighed slightly, and looked at Jeremy. "Ready to go home?"  
  
"Of course," Jeremy said, albeit not totally convincingly. "Let's go."  
  
"Of course," he echoed, and moved with his son to the lifts, out of the hospital, and all the way home to Wales.  
  


~*~

School started again, and life went on without the Curentons at Hogwarts. Two beds stood eerily empty in the Hufflepuff dormitories, waiting for occupants who were not going to come back to school. The halls buzzed, although not with rumours – the papers were clear as Austrian crystal about the circumstances surrounding the attack on the Curenton family and the werewolf responsible, known as Fenrir Greyback. Some called it a tragedy, many more called it an inevitability, a few called it fortuitous – maybe now Curenton would finally stop sucking their pockets dry, with no way to run his betting pool.  
  
Julia thought that was simply stupid. If you didn't want to bet your money, then why would you? It wasn't like he'd ever forced anyone into it.  
  
She'd read all the articles with alarming voracity, almost to the point of memorisation and being able to quote verbatim. She couldn't explain it. Maybe because Jeremy was a friend, perfectly decent and one of the few people in her year she didn't mind associating with because they weren't an idiot, a pureblooded bigot, or both, or didn’t mind associating with her for whatever reasons. Maybe it was thinly veiled references to "the last werewolf to commit such a crime." Or again, maybe it was both.  
  
Either way, Julia sat at the very end of the Gryffindor table, quite on purpose. The people in her house were particularly insufferable, and the discomfort was increasing steadily for every meal since returning to school. By the third day, it was unbearable and even walking to the Slytherin table was more than enough to cause dread to settle in her stomach, heavy as lead. So she sat where she would bother nobody, reading her newspaper and waiting for Gilly, should she deign to show up for breakfast that morning.  
  
Gilly was sick of the news, sick of the response people had to it, and generally just sick of everything except Quidditch these days -- that was her general state of mind, admittedly, but it was worse because of Frobisher. This werewolf thing with Curenton obviously dominated Frobisher's thoughts, and since she was one of the few people Gilly could stand at the bleeding school, something had to be done to shut people up mocking werewolves.  
  
It was with great amusement, surprise and happiness, then, that Gilly spotted Frobisher at the Gryffindor table. She sat down across from her. "Didn't know that you transferred, Frobisher. Not that I blame you, but where  _did_  you sleep after transferring into the best House of them all? Normally I'd say in Curenton's bed, but since it's empty, well, hell. What fun is that?"  
  
Julia waited for Gilly to finish speaking before she gave her a significant look at her over the top of the sports page. "I wouldn't exactly call it a transfer," she said, lowering the paper slightly, "but if I have to sit over there, I'm going to go mad." Or be sick. She wasn't really sure which, but neither was a completely appealing option.  
  
Gilly made a show of rolling her eyes, stabbing her fork into her toast for emphasis. "You're not a prefect! That alpha bitch  _Davis_  got the Prefect spot. Why do you care? If she says something about the whole Curenton thing, punch her!" She demonstrated with a short jab with her wand hand. "Yeah, you might miss a few practices, so what? Imagine her  _face!_ "  
  
She had to admit that the idea of marring Isabelle Davis's face gave her pleasure. Hell, even the idea of thinking about doing it caused the corners of her mouth to quirk upwards. "I think you're trying to sabotage Slytherin Quidditch by denying them a Chaser," she said.  
  
"Maybe a little but I'm out for your interests here too, I always am, you suspicious Slytherin." Gilly picked up her toast by the knife and yanked it off of the utensil. "You need to relax. First step to relaxation is punching someone's face in."  
  
"Maybe," Julia allowed. She was not ordinarily a very violent person, unless it was a special situation, and maybe this would be a special situation. She had no doubt Isabelle could probably push her that far (another reason for sitting with the Gryffindors – removal of temptation), and maybe it would make her feel better. But still, there were more of them than there were of her, even if Gilly helped her out. "You should market that," she advised. "I bet it'd be a huge success."  
  
Gilly swallowed her toast and blinked at Julia. "What, the punching thing? Oh yeah, I can just see it -- 'violence is the first step on the way to inner peace'!" she narrated with a wide gesture. "People would eat that shite right up. So. Have you heard from Curenton yet?"  
  
"No," she said, looking down at the picture of the Puddlemere Keeper blocking the same shot time after time. She hadn't even sent him a note saying something along the lines of "Sorry you got bit and your sister died." She'd tried, but it just all sounded kind of silly and paltry in comparison to how she felt, so she hadn't said anything at all.  
  
Gilly stared at her blankly for a long moment as though hoping the holes bored into her skull by pure disbelief would cause her to raise her head. "I can't blame him for being a little distracted, but what about you? Unless you're being all girly about it. You aren't dating, are you? I think you would've mentioned it, but I have to check these things, sometimes this girly shite gets past me." She paused only for an instant. "They're looking over here."  
  
"No, we're not," she informed her, looking up for only a moment. "And we haven't done anything else, either, so get the idea out of your head." Julia knew who Gilly was talking about. The aforementioned Isabelle was undoubtedly imparting some sort of untrue but wildly entertaining lie (probably about the two of them) to anyone would listen, and she always had at least two willing cohorts: Sophia Higgs and Maude Bletchley.  
  
If they were looking at them, it was all the more reason to pay as little attention as possible. "They can look and talk all they want," she said, and folded her newspaper.  
  
Gilly swallowed a huge chunk of toast with some difficulty before pronouncing in complete seriousness, "I did not just hear that. Do I have to go over there and punch them for you? I can." Or Frobisher could just get over it, but Gilly knew that wasn't going to happen, so the next best thing was to get rid of the detractors. "Or maybe we could set your brother on them."  
  
Julia chortled. Michael was... well, he was Michael. And very much her older brother, which was really more than enough to send most people in the opposite direction. "There's not going to be anything left of them if we set Michael on them."  
  
"You say that as though it's a bad thing. Only good Slytherin is a gone Slytherin," Gilly recited happily, then patted Julia on the hand. "Except for you, you can stay. You're practically a transfer. The hell are you looking at?" she segued seamlessly into a snap at a few younger Gryffindors who seemed more than disconcerted at the Slytherin at their table.  
  
Julia tried not to look at the gawking younger students, although after Gilly's outburst they were now eating and desperately trying not to look at the two of them. Startled into submission. She made a small noise in her throat that could have been described as "mngh."  
  
Gilly took a long drink of juice. "Anyway, I – oh, shite – " she stared past Julia, hand grasping for something and considering the knife before even she deemed such a reaction as overkill. "Bitches incoming. I'll take whatever you bring," she muttered under her breath in their direction, tensing.  
  
Isabelle Davis walked with a swing in her hips. It was well-known why, because she had a very handsome French boyfriend who attended Beauxbatons and lavished her with fancy jewelry, stories of whom she regaled to anyone who sat still long enough. As she stared down at Julia, she lifted a well-manicured hand lifted to herlipsticked mouth in surprise. "Really, the Gryffindor table," she said; despite her attempts at maturity her naturally childish voice betrayed her age with its squeak. "I'm not sure if that's a step down from werewolves... both act like animals and don't seem to be human."  
  
“They’re practically on the same level,” Maude Bletchley was quick to agree, sending a particularly contemptuous look at Gilly, since Julia wasn’t looking up at them.  
  
But just because Julia wasn’t looking at them didn’t mean she wasn’t hearing it, no matter what she wished. “Shut up about it,” she told them through her teeth, grabbing her bag from the floor and stuffing the newspaper into the side pocket, ready to bolt if it became necessary. “You’re a bunch of idiots.”  
  
Gilly's expression formed into a snarl as she stared at Maude, which led to Isabelle's sudden attack of the giggles. "Oh, look, she's even  _acting_  like a beast, girls! Back off, she might bite you with her yellow teeth and then your hair will look as ratty as hers!"  
  
"Go to hell, Davis," Gilly snapped off, standing with a violent shove to her chair as she lost her temper. "Don't you have love letters to go write to that French ponce of yours, if he even exists?"  
  
Isabelle ignored Gilly for a moment, leaning elegantly onto the table and speaking directly into Julia's face: "Don't you have a werewolf to write love letters to? Even if he's too stupid now to write you back."  
  
"Pretty strong words, considering the unintelligent subspecies you find yourself hanging around with," Julia snapped in reply, really wanting Isabelle out of her personal space.  
  
"We are not unintelligent!" Sophia Higgs replied, her blonde hair practically flouncing itself. "Besides, you're the one who's wasting her time mooning over a  _werewolf_ , not even – " she stopped herself, and giggled, a high-pitched sound that grated on Julia's nerves. " _Mooning_."  
  
"Very clever," Julia glowered. Forget killing them, she just wanted to die herself. "Now kindly SHOVE OFF."  
  
Isabelle pouted at Julia, grimaced and made an exaggerated gesture to indicate wafting away Julia's bad breath. "I wouldn't want to stay this close to _Gryffindors_  for very long at any rate – might  _catch_  something," she said, eyeing Gilly. "Girls, come on."  
  
Gilly made it a point to trip Isabelle as she stepped away from the table, crossing her legs innocently as the Slytherin glared her down. She nudged Julia's foot under the table and grinned.  
  
Julia smiled slightly, and then grinned, and before she knew it, she was laughing. "Well, that's something, anyway," she said.  
  
"Next time, shove the knife into her pretty little makeup-covered eye." Gilly seized her knife and made a jabbing gesture. "She'll never know what hit her. Anyway, I have to finish the Charms essay that's due next," she added, nicking another piece of toast from Julia's plate, "so I ought to go, but bloody stop brooding and write to Curenton or I'll write him one myself and sign it with pink ink, LOVE FROM JULIA FROBISHER, MARRY ME." She hopped happily to her feet. "Have a good day!"  
  
She partly wanted to chide her for not doing the homework until just before the class it was due, but she knew that would only draw more teasing and such. It was far less complicated to just let it go. As for writing Jeremy... "I will," she said. Or she'd keep trying. If she managed to write down something that sounded half-intelligent, she would send it. If nothing else to avoid Gilly's forged letter. "Go finish your homework."  
  
Gilly gave a somber, understanding nod and a brief wave before letting out a long, satisfied burst of laughter. She then ran out of the Great Hall, bumping more than a few students on her way out.  
  
Julia sighed and looked at her half-eaten breakfast. She looked back down the table and there was a collective head turn as the students who had previously been gawking at them attempted to not be caught at it again. As if anyone could write  _anything_  in conditions like that. She stood and picked her bag up off the floor, slinging it over her shoulder before making for a safer, more neutral haven, composing and editing the letter in her mind all the while.  
  


~*~

  
  
The last week of January saw some unseasonably warm days for the Scottish Highlands. It wasn't quite warm enough yet to go without the cloaks and scarves; spring was not there yet, not by a long shot, but the sun was warm and the snow had begun to melt. All the same, Hogwarts students flocked to the courtyards to absorb all the sunshine they could get before it sank behind the hills – and enjoy the snow before it was all gone.   
  
Remus's read-through of the recently assigned Defence chapter was interrupted when a slushy snowball hit the side of his head. He winced and squirmed slightly as some trickled down his neck. "Your aim leaves something to desire," he told Sirius, shaking the rest out of his hair.  
  
"Blame Prongs, he's the one who keeps moving," Sirius said, already gathering up more of the snow to throw at James.  
  
"It's not hard, you have worse aim than a Slytherin Chaser," James laughed, and threw another snowball.  
  
"Well you throw like a girl," he returned, successfully ducking the snowball and immediately throwing his next one.  
  
"Yeah, well, you throw like a Hufflepuff!"  
  
"The Hufflepuff Chasers aren't that bad," Peter spoke up from where he sat by Remus.  
  
Remus smirked as Sirius chortled and retorted. "Two of them are also girls," Remus put in.   
  
"So where are you going with that thought, Remus?" Sirius asked, tossing his new snowball from one hand to the other with a careless air.   
  
"Moony's noticed there are girls at Hogwarts, that's a big step," James noted with a smirk, and threw another snowball at Sirius.  
  
"Very big," Sirius agreed, immediately releasing his snowball when he saw James throw his, but was unable to avoid being hit. "I'm impressed Moony, which one were you looking at?"  
  
Remus rolled his eyes but didn't answer, readjusting his textbook.  
  
"No need to be shy, we won't tell," James managed to say with a straight face for a few moments before sniggering.  
  
"Did anyone else ever tell you two that you're hilarious?" Remus asked without looking up from his book.  
  
"It's been known to happen," Sirius answered, and after a thoughtful moment, threw his snowball and hit James squarely in the chest. "YES, who throws like a Hufflepuff girl now?"  
  
"A lucky shot," James exclaimed, and readied himself to take another shot, only to stop at spotting something more interesting in the distance. "Snivellus, three o'clock," he said. "Should I take the shot? It'll be more of a shower than he's had in years."  
  
Sirius grinned. "You can't hit that from this distance," he said, squinting against the sun.  
  
"Two sickles says I can," James said, squaring his shoulders.  
  
"Go for it, James," Peter encouraged.  
  
"You're on," Sirius said, nodding.  
  
James squinted, focused, and whipped the snowball in Snape's direction. He whooped as it hit Snape squarely in the head. "BRILLIANT," he shouted.  
  
"Damn," Sirius cursed at having lost his two sickles, but was forced to admit, "Nice shot, Prongs."  
  
Remus forced himself to turn and look at Severus Snape, who had recently been nailed with a snowball and looked like it. He made a face and groaned. "Guys," he started.  
  
James hunched over in laughter at the sight of Snape sopping snow out of his hair with his cloak, distracted enough to miss the hex that grazed him and nearly took him off-balance. "Oi, what the – "  
  
"Oh no," Peter said under his breath at seeing a second figure by Snape, and glanced at Sirius to see if he'd noticed yet. " _Oh no_."  
  
"If you want a duel, let's go, bring your second, you'll need 'im," James shouted to Snape as he and presumably another bastard Slytherin in a hooded cloak approached.  
  
For what it was worth, Sirius had noticed exactly what Peter had. "Or don't bother at all, he fights like a little girl too – don't you,  _Reg?_ "  
  
Regulus Black pushed back his hood and stopped Snape with a hand to his arm. "Severus, don't waste your time, they'll get what they deserve," he said, with more disinterest than disdain. "Snowballs, how juvenile."  
  
"Lay off," Sirius snapped, not standing down. "It's a bit of fun which is, I'm sure, too difficult and complex a concept for you poufs to understand. You just get all shirty over it –"  
  
"Now who's getting shirty," Regulus retorted. "You're not  _ready_  to duel with the least of us, Sirius – "  
  
"There's someone lower than either of you? Poor bastard," James snapped.  
  
"Yes, there is, and I'm looking right at him," Snape said, his glare set right at James.  
  
"What, you and all your Death Eating mates? Like I'm scared of you lot," Sirius laughed harshly.  
  
"Then you're stupider than I thought." Regulus gained a sneer, and his hand went to his wand.  
  
"Remus," Peter hissed. "Come on, they're actually going to duel, there's no way this ends well!"  
  
Peter was right – he saw Sirius's wand in his hand before he could even fully process what was being said. "Hold on," he said, and came to stand between the two pairs. "There's no point in this and – and magic isn't allowed in the corridors, anyway – "  
  
"Oh well, we could do it  _without_  magic, but I suspect that would just make it too bloody easy," Sirius broke in, his wand still at the ready.  
  
"I wouldn't touch a filthy blood-traitor like you even to punch your face in," Regulus scoffed, speaking right over a nonverbal hex of Snape's darting right past Remus at James.  
  
James blocked it and pushed past Remus. "You sodding  _bastard_  – "  
  
Regulus gave a laugh as James and Snape started to duel. "You have no idea what you're up against, any of you," he said, smug. "Snape will destroy him."  
  
Remus stumbled back after the unexpected jostling, and watched in dismay as the situation exploded in seconds. "James. Sirius," he said in a tone that was more pleading than authoritative.  
  
Sirius had confidence that James could handle Snape perfectly well and didn't seem to hear Remus, and was not overly concerned just now with any of them. "Of course not. You wouldn't want to dirty your pretty little  _mummy's boy_  hands in a fight now, would you," he snarled as he approached his younger brother.  
  
Regulus actually laughed aloud. "Now I remember why Mother's so happy you're gone," he taunted, and pointed his wand at Sirius, all semblance of amusement gone. "Don't give me  _another_  reason."  
  
Just as Sirius was about the dispense with the wands business and slam his fist into Regulus's twisted little face like he so desperately wanted, an all too familiar voice shouted above the din, "WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN IS GOING ON HERE?"  
  
Heads turned, and hateful expressions dimmed as Professor McGonagall stared back at them with narrowed eyes over the top of her spectacles. "I am waiting for an answer, gentlemen, and I do not have all day," she prompted severely.  
  
"Snape hexed James," Peter spoke up. "James is just defending himself – "  
  
Regulus scoffed loudly. "You can't actually believe that James Potter is an innocent victim, Professor McGonagall," he said. "We were attacked and threatened, first of all."  
  
"Oh, shut up, Reggie, that's why Snape hexed me twice while I was unarmed, because I was bullying his slimy arse?" James snapped, brandishing his wand at Snape yet again.  
  
"I think Black and Potter's record speaks for itself, Professor," Snape said, tone even and cool as he stared right back at James.  
  
"Your face speaks for itself," Sirius shot back.  
  
"ENOUGH," McGonagall roared over top of them, and looked at each boy in turn. Her eyes finally went to Remus Lupin, who had said nothing and was eyeing the ground. "Have you anything to add, Mr. Lupin?"  
  
He looked up and was at a loss for a moment. "Um, no," he said. "I mean, it was – more or less like Peter and James said," he added, inwardly wincing.  
  
Professor McGonagall sighed and motioned. "You four," she said, pointing to Sirius, James, Regulus, and Snape, "come with me. Mr. Potter and Mr. Black will come to my office and Mr. Snape and Mr. Black, we will deliver you to Professor Slughorn – "  
  
"Oh yeah,  _that'll_  show 'em," Sirius muttered.  
  
"Another word out of you, Mr. Black, and you will be cleaning my blackboard until you sit your NEWTs in addition to whatever punishment is coming for this incident."  
  
Regulus looked back at Snape with a clearly victorious expression, only to find that he and Potter were glaring. Instead, he called "Severus!" and incidentally shoved past his blood-traitor brother on his way back inside.  
  
James stood motionless and stared at Snape's back with a focused glare as though to strike him dead like a basilisk. He let it go, gave Sirius a grin, and tripped Snape one last time, sending him stumbling into Regulus. "Careful, Snape," he called.  
  
"Move it, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said frostily. Sirius didn't dare react until she had turned around to lead them back into the castle, at which point he sniggered and high fived James.  
  
"That could've been worse," Peter said to Remus, still a little shaky.  
  
"That could've been avoided," he replied with a slight frown.  
  
"They're asking for it, they should keep their Dark Arts and their – loyalties to themselves, if you ask me." He put his hands in his pockets. "Suppose we should go back inside then."  
  
Grateful for the change of subject, Remus nodded in agreement. "Yeah. It's getting late," he said, going back to the bench where his Defence text had been abandoned.  
  
"Time to study," Peter sighed, as they headed back inside. "Figures McGonagall ruins our fun."  
  
"She has impeccable timing," Remus conceded ambiguously.  
  
"They'll get away with it," Peter decided. "They always do."  
  
"Probably," he said, readjusting his bag over his shoulder. Slughorn had a habit of winking an eye at rule infractions – particularly those of favoured students. "On the other hand," he started, "maybe he'll put his foot down this time."  
  
"Maybe. And maybe Lily Evans will snog James at breakfast tomorrow. Anything's possible."  
  
Remus couldn't help but let himself smile a little at that. "I suppose stranger things have happened," he said, leading the way back towards Gryffindor.


	4. No Exit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Fenrir Greyback's escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life was not being all that helpful for the last three days, so this update comes a little late. We'll be on time on Saturday again. Kudos or comment (or bookmark!) if you like, thx :D

_It should be no surprise to the average witch or wizard that Dark wizards inevitably attract Dark Creatures._  Mara Mockridge,  _A Short History of the You-Know-Who Days_ , 1985.  
  
 _February 1977_  
Susanna King never liked the idea of werewolves, savage, drooling, useless beasts that they were. They were halfbreeds of the nearly worst sort, and the disgusting pictures of the hulking and hairy-snouted beasts from her sixth year Defence textbook haunted her thoughts as she contemplated her task for the night. It took a glass and a half of wine before she was even willing to leave the house, to meet a fellow Death Eater in Magical Law Enforcement tonight.   
  
They were to capture a werewolf for the Dark Lord's plans, one that was just waiting for them, too opportune to ignore. But it didn't mean she had to like it.   
  
If Susanna was less than excited about the task set before them, Bradley Davis was downright squeamish. He said nothing to that effect, determined to bear it with something resembling bravado. No matter how much he tried to talk himself down with the idea that it was for the best in the end, or even just that it was an  _order_  that he had to follow, it remained that this was a werewolf, a monster who had no business being free, and he certainly didn't see why he had to do it, even if there would be another with him.   
  
The Ministry was as quiet as a tomb after everyone packed up and went home at five o'clock. He just wished that this could be over and done with, he could go home, crawl into bed with his wife, and forget that it ever happened. When his fellow Death Eater did finally arrive, he wished that she were late so that he could say so. She was on time, early even, so all he managed was a curt nod in greeting.   
  
Susanna rolled her eyes and tugged nervously at her furs. "Oh, Bradley, don't be such a twat," she sniped in a contradictorily gracious tone. "It's so dreadfully cold out here, we ought to get to it – oh, look, we'll be early." She smiled; after all, a werewolf might go much more easily along if they were a _very nice_  wizard and witch capable of dealing with savages.   
  
He was really not in the mood for her shit tonight; not any night, really, but especially tonight. She wasn't particularly likeable, he didn't think, but certainly more bearable than most in the Dark Lord's service. "Yes, well, February will tend to be cold. Let's stop wasting time," he suggested.   
  
She scowled at him, tossing her head defiantly and beginning to walk. Her heels clicked briskly on the floor as she left him behind. "You could use a bit of diplomacy, you'll need it for when we're  _in there_  with it. And a spine, is it too much to hope you've grown one of those? Or am I going to be left doing all the  _men's_  work?"   
  
"Speaking of growing things, if you happen to have grown the equipment for it, why not," he snarled, advancing after her. He was fully aware that he was being manipulated into getting worked up, and it was rather sad that it continued to work. He was a bit calmer when he spoke next. "As you said, we haven't much time, and I see nothing wrong with wanting to accomplish this in the quickest, most efficient manner. So are we going to go or are we not?"   
  
Susanna looked back at him, utterly amused for an instant before nervous giggles erupted from her. They weren't too far, and there would be no banter once inside. Whistling in the dark began now. "Oh, I like it when you get aggressive," she said wryly. "Quickest, most effective manner –that must really please your poor wife. And you ought to grow the  _equipment_  for men's work, perhaps then you wouldn't have a more capable woman sent to guide you –  "   
  
"You are now the one who is avoiding completing the task," Bradley cut her off, maybe too proud to admit that he was practically scared witless and that – well, that she was right, but he was not above pointing a finger in her direction if something happened. "Now, ladies first," he added after lighting the end of his wand with a  _lumos_  to illuminate their way; the dim, after hours lighting was not going to be convenient for their needs.   
  
Susanna gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes and simpered, "How  _kind_  of you, Bradley, I can truly tell you're a gentleman of the highest prestige." She dropped the sarcasm. "Relax. You don't want to ruin this for Him, do you? They can smell fear, you know." A triumphant sort of smirk flickered on her face before she turned into the right corridor.   
  
It was very third year of him and he knew it, but Bradley couldn't help but make a face at her back before following her into the darkened corridor.  _They could smell fear._  Definitely the last thing he needed to hear right now. "If that cheap perfume of yours doesn't cover it up, I don't know what would," was his retort. Immature banter was going to see him through tonight.   
  
Susanna stopped instantly at a sound, imagined or not, and glanced around. Of course, the place was largely if not completely empty (as had been _arranged_ ) but there was still room for paranoia. "Just don't  _run away_  and we'll do fine, darling."   
  
Bradley checked over his shoulder as well; his nerves were really starting to get to him. "I am  _not_  going to run away," he muttered after following her around a corner.   
  
"I hope you're prepared, I know you had a great lot of work to catch up on – I saw you slaving away earlier." She bared a pleasantly nasty grin.   
  
He responded to her grin in the harsh lift light with an equally unpleasant scowl. "The amount of paperwork you get handed is directly proportional to how much the Department head hates you," he advised.   
  
Susanna feigned complete innocent shock, a hand going to her lipsticked mouth. "I don’t understand why, you're such a people person," she sighed. "And that family of yours, equally entertaining and riotously fun, of course – I only fell asleep once at your dinner party." Normally she'd have stopped minutes ago but now, as the silence and darkness of the abandoned Department threatened to envelop them, there was little else to do but pretend like they were at the Magical Law Enforcement's water cooler and bicker away.   
  
"Only once? What a pity, I was hoping you'd do us all a favour and just  _die_  of the boredom," he answered, and flinched at his word. That was insane, they weren't going to die. They were a completely capable and competent witch and wizard, and this was only a werewolf. Vicious, but able to be subjugated.   
  
What started as a grin was released as an unladylike snigger, stifled within an instant of its escape. "Oh, really, Bradley, do pull yourself together, you're acting like a frightened rabbit."   
  
"Enough," he hissed, his voice lowered from their conversational volume they'd previously been speaking in. "We're nearly there. Past the court rooms, let's just go."   
  
They tracked their way across the Aurors' section of the Department, not jostling a single cubicle or desk on their way to the courtrooms. Susanna tried not to goggle and grin too long at the walls covered with Aurors' valiant efforts to search out certain Death Eaters, but it was difficult.   
  
Bradley also examined it briefly as they passed, although not with as much glee as Susanna. The newspaper articles, dossiers, and photographs served as a reminder to him how he needed to keep alert and on his toes – not that Magical Law Enforcement could do a lot. That was mostly their job.   
  
He undid the locks on the door to the corridor of small holding cells and fixed it so that they wouldn't automatically lock again when the door shut behind them. Without asking Susanna if she was ready, he pushed the door open.   
  
At this ungentlemanly indiscretion, she straightened her furs as she was forced to hold the door open for herself. There were more important things to consider. She withdrew her wand and idly counted the doors to the cell. "The third door, yes?"   
  
It was a foolish statement, she realised, upon actually looking at the shape of the door that she could see. This was clearly a door modified to hold something very strong and very dangerous. "I wouldn't have possibly guessed," she muttered.   
  
"The third door," he echoed dryly just as the door fell closed. The light from his  _lumos_  bounced off the walls and created an eerily appropriate glow. "You really should have just guessed." He couldn't believe that he could still find it in himself to be caustic, but a defense mechanism was forever a defense mechanism.   
  
Susanna was cold, he was unpleasant, and she very much hoped the Dark Lord would gain very very much from this ordeal, because she hadn't even seen what lay behind that door and already this ranked as one of the worst nights she'd ever had. "Open the door, would you, darling?" she asked with uncharacteristic terseness. "Or do you need a woman's help?"   
  
Yes, because she'd been such a fabulous help so far. Unheeding of her remarks, he said, "Keep your wand ready," as if that weren't already obvious, and undid the locks in a similar manner to the previous door, and pulled it open.   
  
For an instant she stared into the sliver of the room she could see, not moving, but then swiftly stalked past Bradley and into the cell. This was no time to shrink back. This was a very important mission, and she wasn't going to be counted as useless.   
  
Where was it? It could not have possibly broken through that door, halfbreed freak or not. She turned, a snide comment already prepared to call out to Bradley, when she saw the man, the creature, huge and slumped in the corner. She met its eyes and the gaze it returned made her feel like prey. She took a step back. "Bradley?"   
  
Bradley took in a sharp breath, also catching a look into its face. His heart skipped several successive beats and after a moment he slowly released the breath he'd been holding. A bit dumbly, he said, "You're Fenrir Greyback?" No harm in making sure.   
  
Fenrir looked between the witch and wizard, pushed his hair out of his face with long fingernails and smiled slowly as though unveiling his teeth. The threat and hunger lurked only in his eyes along with the wolf. The memories of Erin Curenton, though satisfying, could not keep him sated. "That’s what they call me. What are you looking for, wizards? A pet? I'm not well house-trained."   
  
It was so sickening. Beyond disgusting, and Bradley really hoped that this was going to be worth it for himself in the end – not just for the Cause, but for him. He had been promised it would be, but reward was dependent on success of the mission. He resisted the urge to violently retch on his shoes and without taking his eyes off him said, "We've come to deliver you from this place."   
  
Fenrir considered standing, to stand not only at the level of but above the witch and wizard. There was no point. They had come through all of those security measures, all of those open doors now pointing towards freedom, to speak to him. "Out of the kindness of your hearts, you would deliver a murdering werewolf back to freedom?"  
  
Susanna teetered for a moment in her high heels. Oh, he smelled, and his hair and his long fingernails, oh, she was going to be sick. Finally, she recovered and gave the beast a sunny and pleasant smile as she answered. "We want what's best for the world. You closed the mouth of a false prophet. You spread messages by spreading fear." She lowered her furs, relaxing. "As does the Dark Lord."   
  
Bradley personally wouldn't have minded leaving Fenrir Greyback in the depths of the Ministry to rot. It would be bound to happen anyway, which was why this was an offer no one would refuse – for anyone who wasn’t interested in Kissing a Dementor, anyway. "Our Lord believes it would be most beneficial to enter into an...  _arrangement._ " He did his best to discreetly hold on to the door to keep himself upright.   
  
Fenrir leaned his head back against the wall and turned his eyes to the ceiling to conceal his doubt. His end, to the pack, would be inconsequential. Pack was pack, and no individual was important enough to risk the end of the pack. Still, he knew he could lead his pack, and they deserved the best. "So what do you need me for," he said after a long pause. "If it’s good for me and my people, I might consider helping you, but who knows?"   
  
Susanna took a step forward, and the quick movement caught Fenrir's eye – the eyes of the wolf and the witch met, and the wolf was the first to back off. "You would rather suffer the Dementor’s Kiss," she sneered, "than work for the man who wants to clear away the disgrace of the world’s weakest wizards? Well." She huffed and turned to Bradley. "He doesn't appreciate what he's getting, let's go."   
  
That was okay with Bradley, even if this was a bluff. "Very well," he replied in a similar fashion, stepping back to allow her room to go first – a time waster. "We can leave you here to waste away at the hands of other wizards, or you can come with us."   
  
Fenrir rose to his feet, unfolding to his full height, and watched their bluff for an instant before worry quickly erupted into anger. He seized Bradley and shoved him into the nearest wall, strong hand gripping his throat and long fingernails sharp in his flesh. "Give me your terms," he snapped, nose-to-nose with the wizard.   
  
Bradley winced against the impact of his back with the wall. The hand around his throat was not nearly as worrying as the thing on the other end of it, despite the nails pressing into his flesh. He wanted it to let  _go_ , but that was not going to happen. "We spring you from here in exchange for services to our Lord," he managed to get out, and took the deepest breath he could get. "He can promise – better for your kind when He succeeds, with your help – fucking hell would you  _put me down?_ "   
  
A growl built in Fenrir's throat, the wolf's overreaction at being cursed at, and stopped abruptly at something that Fenrir the man had not expected. Susanna's hand was now resting on his arm. He looked over at her, tightening his grip on the wizard's throat. It had been too long since he'd tasted something real – real blood, real meat, real prey. "You expect me to serve a  _wizard?_ "   
  
Susanna tightened her own grip on Fenrir's arm, her manicured fingernails pressing crescents into his skin. She shot Bradley a warning look before smiling at the werewolf. "It's mutually beneficial. We benefit from you, you benefit from us. You're certainly no servant, no more than either of us are. We're soldiers for the best cause."   
  
Yes, obviously the best. Sign yourself up and you too can be breaking dangerous magical beasts out of Ministry lock-up and getting the crap beat out of you. This was not Bradley's best night ever. "The benefits far outweigh any downsides," he said dryly, as much as he could manage with a hand wrapped around his throat.   
  
Fenrir rolled his eyes at the wizard and released him. "So what would I do for your Father? And I demand protection from your wizards' Ministry."   
  
Bradley attempted to scramble back to his feet, although really the return of air was enough for the moment. "Our Lord desires to make allies from the fringes of the wizarding society," he said. He truly didn't know what else was in store, he was a fucking  _messenger_. "And of course – protection."  
  
Susanna physically insinuated herself back into the conversation, fairly certain that the werewolf liked her more. "So what do you say, Greyback, we haven't much time, you know, and I'm sure you'd rather be out in the fresh air than stuck here in the Ministry, waiting for your trial, don't you agree? Bradley, do find your wand, we've a Vow to make." She gestured briskly at him, taking the werewolf's hand.   
  
Her hands were warm, and he squeezed her hand, feeling the soft skin and the muscle beneath. Immediately he revealed a toothy grin, one that quickly turned to a snarl when he looked to the wizard. "A Vow," he repeated. "What kind of Vow?"   
  
"The Unbreakable sort," Bradley cut in, snatching his wand from where it had been dropped. He was officially in no mood for surprises or things that weren't in the plan. This should have been finished a long time ago. He touched the end of his wand to their joined hands. "Go on, Susanna," he told her.   
  
Susanna drew herself up to her full height and smiled benevolently upon the wretched creature who stood over her. "Will you, Fenrir Greyback, pledge your life and faithful service to the Dark Lord, He Who Must Not Be Named?" she whispered, his name reverent as though in prayer.   
  
What choice did he have? Abandon his pack, his children, his Father’s ideals, all that he had worked for his entire life? He could make this work. He would never be their Father's pet. He closed his eyes. "I will."   
  
One fiery strand shot from the end of Bradley's wand and wrapped around their hands. He focused intently on the task at hand, silently urging her and even time itself to go faster. Susanna closed her eyes to avoid the werewolf’s rapt, predatory gaze, unable to escape it even so. Carefully thinking, she spoke a few minutes later, her voice even. "Will you follow the Dark Lord's every command until the day you die?"   
  
Fenrir turned his gaze from Susanna for a moment, towards Bradley, irritated at the length of the ritual. Wizards and magic, all useless and time-wasting skills. "I will," he said, his usual rasp of a voice turned to a snap directed at the idiot holding the wand.   
  
As a second line of flame wound around the first, glowing orange against pale skin, Bradley forced himself to hold the werewolf's gaze.  _He_  was the wizard here and not him, and no matter what his societal status among wizards might be, he was still above him.   
  
Susanna bit her lip, thought in her best twisting legalities, and opened her eyes. She squeezed the werewolf's hand, and he turned his gaze to her – the creature behind his eyes also stared at her. "Will you never tell the things you now know and will learn about the Dark Lord and His servants to anyone except those who are also in His service?" she pronounced.   
  
Fenrir's fingers wove with hers, and he gave her a slight nod. The wolf knew alliance, because it knew pack. They would be loyal first to pack, and then to this Dark Lord. "I will." His voice was low, though her eyes shifted demurely away from his now seeking look.   
  
It was a way with words, Bradley would give her that. The third and final fiery cord moved with the speed of a striking snake and glowed, before all three faded. "The Vow is complete," he announced, almost unnecessarily. "Now let's get out of here."   
  
Susanna made a move to withdraw her hand, but that appeared to be unlikely; Fenrir's grip had tensed. She threw a veneer of a gracious smile over her fear and looked to Bradley. "Yes. You'll lock the door behind us?"   
  
"No, I thought I'd leave the doors hanging open with arrows pinned up indicating our escape route.  _Yes_ , I'll lock the doors," Bradley said, becoming more and more agitated by the second.   
  
Her smile grew wider as her desperation built to panic. The halfbreed wolf was clinging to her hand, its yellow fingernails in her skin. "Thank you, Bradley, you're so kind," she said wryly, and stepped out into the hallway with Fenrir following with a movement more reminiscent of a couple entering a ball than the perpetrators of a jailbreak. "Quickly now."   
  
Bradley was too eager to comply, stepping out after them and closing the heavy door, removing the charm he'd used to keep it from locking, and even adding another one. It'd take time to break that, and every minute was worth it. "Go on, have to get through the Department yet," he said, preparing to repeat it with the next door.   
  
"Go on, lead the way, wizard." Fenrir left it in the flat tone of an order, the tone he used on every member of his pack from the newly converted to those who knew they must do anything for pack. This man  _would_  be cowed.   
  
Susanna's fear subsided with amusement at the halfbreed talking down to her Death Eater colleague. "Now now, let's not fight over trifles."   
  
Bradley would lead the way, all right. Right off a cliff. Or into the Thames. He didn't really care. Scowling, he pushed past the two of them and moved quickly down the corridor. "Come on," he hissed at them, before doing the Charms on the door.   
  
Susanna wasn't exactly certain why the halfbreed was steering her closer to the far wall, but she wasn't about to push back (and she doubted it would have any effect on the monstrous thing). She certainly hoped that the contact with the beast would end here, because even in the service of the Dark Lord, she wasn't sure she could make herself tolerate Fenrir Greyback for much longer.   
  
Fenrir sensed her fear, could smell her hair, her skin; within a moment, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the wall with a nasty thud, leaving blood where her head struck.   
  
Bradley recognized the sound as one that didn't belong. He snapped around in time to see Susanna slide along the wall. Damnit, they should have known that they couldn't trust a Dark creature! He leveled his wand at the monster and stammered out, "Stay back – "   
  
Fenrir turned, looking down at the insignificant wizard and his useless piece of wood. Smiling with the pure joy of the hunt, he shoved the wand arm away and seized the wizard by the neck. Any spells the man could think of while being choked would probably not hurt him very badly.   
  
Bradley's hands immediately came to grasp and ineffectually claw at the strong, rough hand around his neck. As it had earlier, oxygen was becoming scarce and for the first time, he was honestly certain that he wasn't leaving the building alive. Even if by some miracle there was someone coming, it'd be over.   
  
Fenrir stared down into the wizard's face, and spoke with the greatest satisfaction. "I will serve  _no wizard_." With that, he seized the wand and twirled it between his two fingers idly, laughing as he readied it and shoved it point-first into the wizard's throat.   
  
He saw no point in watching the man die, and the wolf was satisfied with the blood that had seeped onto his hand. He chose to walk calmly out of the Department rather than run like frightened prey. He had truly proven that his kind was superior, and now he would return to his pack, where he belonged and was needed.  
  


~*~

  
  
If Gilly Broadmoor was well-known for anything, it was violence, Quidditch, shouting or any combination of those three, but her defining trait certainly was not a fondness for reading. The Gryffindors knew this, which was exactly why they found it so bizarre for the Gryffindors to see their least politically inclined housemate reading the front page of  _The Daily Prophet_  with a raptness usually reserved for articles regarding "the unequivocally best team ever," the Falcons.  
  
She spoke to no one, not even her teammates, and barely looked up until she saw Isabelle Davis enter the Great Hall. At that she uncharacteristically buried her head further into the newspaper, eating a piece of toast somewhat mechanically until she happened to see Julia Frobisher arrive, and hurriedly waved her over with the remaining crust of her toast.  
  
Julia could count the number of times she'd sat and eaten at the Slytherin table since returning from Christmas holidays on one hand (and until there was a specific order from the Headmaster, it wasn't happening on a regular basis) so it was a little bit of a surprise that Gilly was even bothering to wave her over. Her step did speed up a little to accommodate her friend's beckoning, and dropped onto the bench beside her. "What're you all excited about?" she asked, reaching for some toast of her own and the marmalade.  
  
Gilly quickly stuffed the remaining toast into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, all in time to thrust the newspaper into Julia's face. "Look smart, Frobisher, things just got very interesting." She glanced over at the Slytherin table, running her fingers through her already unruly hair. "Fucking hell, everything's going to shit – next thing I wager You-Know-Who runs for bloody Minister."  
  
"... Not that that wouldn't be interesting, what're you going on about for real?" she asked, following Gilly's glance with one of her own. She didn't notice anything in that quick look, but Gilly seemed to think that there was something worth noting. " _What?_ "  
  
Gilly rolled her eyes and stabbed her finger into the article that sat front page center:  _Werewolf Escapes Ministry._  "Read, and read between the lines – and if you don't get it, I'll accept that I'm a bloody paranoid Gryffindor who thinks half you lot are Death Eaters, but I really think they're hinting – "  
  
Julia wasn't even listening to Gilly after the first order to read. Her toast dropped to her plate as she snatched the newspaper from her and began to read. Her stomach sank steadily as she continued, reading closely as she had with every other article since December, and she couldn’t even finish it, having to put it down about three-fourths of the way through. "Fuck," was the only thing she could come up with to say.  
  
"I particularly like the bit where they're insensitive enough to take the millionth-and-one shot at the Curentons," Gilly idly mentioned, "but  _Bradley Davis_. Notice they didn't mention how he died, or when, just that the werewolf killed him? How the fuck did a werewolf get out of a Ministry cell?" She looked aside where Isabelle sat at the Slytherin table, staring at her plate. "Bet I can make her cry in ten seconds flat."  
  
"Probably," Julia agreed listlessly, taking the paper back. She was going to force herself to finish the article. She wasn't thinking about Isabelle or even very worried about a backlash from her right now, or even sure there could be any sort of satisfaction in making her cry, or angry, or anything right now. "Just... god _damn_." She wasn't able to express herself but in single curse words, not even a strand of them.  
  
"Are you hearing a word I'm saying? This is  _big_." Gilly gestured widely. "Big. You know, like  _what the fuck_ , big bad werewolf is out to start eating half the population and he's  _probably_  going to start with your boyfriend. Big as in now werewolves are  _fucked_ , Frobisher. Worse than usual." She suddenly looked down at her toast and fell silent, grabbing the sports section and leaving the rest for Julia.  
  
She hadn't really been listening before, but she picked a terrible time to start hearing what Gilly was saying. "They never weren't fucked," she replied, and put down the newspaper.  
  
Jeremy. She was going to have to write to Jeremy. "And not my boyfriend," she added belatedly.  
  
More familiar and less political ground. Gilly stole a piece of toast off of the Seeker's plate, offering a good natured and somewhat dangerous smile in return. She raised an eyebrow at Julia. "Right, you two are just best mates, and I'm a bloody Harpies centerfold model – "  
  
"I didn't know either of you could read." For once, Isabelle Davis stood unflanked against the pair of idiot misfits with the filth at the Gryffindor table. "It looks like your favourite halfbreeds are in the news again, Frobisher," she said nastily. "If you want more disgusting Dark Creatures to associate your name with, I hear Sebastian Derrick is half-troll."  
  
It never seemed to fail, Julia thought, that Isabelle Davis appeared where she was least wanted. "You seem to be a full harpy, speaking of disgusting. Do you want something?" she added.  
  
"Looking for someone to abuse? Because I saw Maude Bletchley wearing red nail varnish and everyone knows that blue looks better with elitist stupidity," Gilly interjected before Isabelle could even recover enough from indignation  to open her mouth.  
  
Isabelle's eyes filled with tears but her firm posture didn't change. "I'm  _glad_ ," she snapped. "I am very glad. Because now everyone will know that inhuman freaks like werewolves are dangerous and ought to be destroyed like the rabid beasts they are."  
  
"Go and shag your shoe catalogues or something," Gilly muttered, shoving her in the shoulder. "This is so bloody stupid – "  
  
"You don't know ANYTHING," Julia found herself standing to yell at Isabelle. Her cheeks began to flush with rage as she continued, not even sure what was going to come out of her mouth until it did so. "You just – you don't even  _think_  that there's the least bit of possibility there could be a single good werewolf out there let alone maybe  _dozens_  just because of one, and – do you ever listen to yourself? You probably shouldn't because if you ever did you'd realize how little sense you ACTUALLY make and then you might just have to make up your own mind about something instead of what superstition tells you!"  
  
Gilly had been waiting for some time for an excuse like this, but she hadn't foreseen that there would be a  _death_  involved. She glanced up at the staff's table to see McGonagall's gaze on their table, and made her decision, standing to pull Julia down. "It's not worth it now sit and later, later you can knock her out – "  
  
" – I listen to myself, and all the evidence points to everything I say," Isabelle hissed at Julia. "Everyone agrees with me, every _thing_  agrees with me, I'm right, you're wrong, and if you weren't a halfwit piece of filth you'd understand by now – "  
  
Isabelle was never given a chance to put an ending on that sentence, whatever it was going to be. Julia shook Gilly off, pulled back her fist and as only a girl with two brothers can, threw it into Isabelle's jaw. She really would have liked to do it a second time but her hand protested at the thought, now throbbing with dull pain – although with any luck it didn't hurt nearly as much as Isabelle's face.  
  
As much as Gilly had been hoping for just that sight in particular, this was not fun at all. She gaped for an instant before scrambling up and pulling a now-sobbing Isabelle away from the Gryffindor table.  
  
"Shut your face and sit down," she whispered sharply, but Isabelle slapped her across the face in response. It stung, but Gilly merely gave Isabelle a shove towards the Slytherin table and returned to Gryffindor with her head lowered.  
  
Julia was sitting on the bench again, staring at her plate, empty except for the forgotten piece of toast. She was trying to ignore the hushed whispering and those straining to see what was going on, even the glances that were inevitably coming from the staff table and the thought of the summons that would certainly come after breakfast, although this was proving easier said than done. When Gilly sat down, she said blankly, "I can't believe I did that."  
  
Gilly rubbed at her cheek. It only hurt because she wasn't expecting it and she hadn't managed a punch in return, and that opportunity had just come and gone. "If they try to give you detentions, blame it on me, would you?" She threw a toast crust into the air and caught it in her mouth. Chewing, she added, "I can handle two or three more."  
  
Julia chortled, packing away the pertinent section of the paper – the front page – into her bag. "That's a very Gryffindor thing for you to say," she said. "I won't get too many, I don't have a history of detention. Unlike you."  
  
"That's my paper," Gilly pointed out pointlessly. "And I mean it, you can blame me, Slytherin that you are, you'd probably do it anyway." She took a long drink of water and sighed, leaning on the table and toasting her with the rest. "To things not getting worse."  
  
"Would not," Julia answered, equally pointless to Gilly's observation. If things did get worse... well, she really hated to think about how they could get worse. It probably wouldn't be in the front page, but in the back with the obituaries. "To things not getting worse," she echoed, and settled in to finish breakfast.  
  


~*~

  
  
Later that night Julia was sitting on her bed, in her nightclothes and underneath the covers. An inkwell was balanced on one knee, a textbook being used as a makeshift writing desk for a letter to Jeremy she was trying to compose was on the other, and her cat Odysseus stretched out on his side beside her. This letter was not one of the easiest or even best that she would ever write. She’d tried to start it about ten times just in the last hour and all the attempts ended up scratched out and crumpled at the foot of her bed. She’d managed to write once since coming back to school, right after Gilly had made her threat, and he hadn’t written back.  
  
On this, her eleventh attempt since she’d climbed into bed, she’d so far written  _Jeremy_ , and nothing else. She’d gone back and forth between using that salutation and ‘Dear Jeremy’ and decided against it because it was maybe a little forward, or awkward. Both of those things got in the way of what she wanted to say, or would get in the way of him reading what she wanted to say. The less of that there was, the better. She nibbled on the end of her quill in contemplation.  
  
What was there to say? Everything she could write down sounded inane or stupid and not worth the ink she would use or the parchment she would write it on. She was sorry that Fenrir Greyback had escaped. So what? The entire wizarding world was sorry that he’d gotten out; sorry didn’t even seem like a strong enough word for it. She was sorry that his sister was dead. That wasn’t even remotely fair -- the one thing that was clear about Jeremy once she had gotten to know him was that he adored his sister. And she was just plain sorry that he wasn’t there anymore.  
  
Whatever it would mean to him, he had to know that. He had to know that she understood, a little, or at least sympathized. He might not ever know why she understood, but it could be enough to just know that someone got it, or at least wasn’t going to judge him if it was indeed beyond their grasp.  
  
She gave a frustrated sigh, angrily capped her inkwell, and shoved it all aside to straighten her legs and lean back against the headboard. Odysseus gave a low  _mrow_  as his sleeping position was disturbed, before curling right back up again. Maybe this wouldn’t work. Maybe she should just not say a word. Not say a word about recent events? She sighed again, milder this time and closed her eyes briefly.  
  
The dorm was quiet, her three roommates long asleep in their beds, or so she’d thought. The first sound she heard was so muffled that she thought it was coming from the corridor outside. She listened closely, however, and figured out that it was coming from the next bed, with its curtains drawn.  
  
Isabelle’s bed. Isabelle was crying.  
  
Julia’s stomach sank. She felt badly, mostly because she couldn’t dredge up a lot of true sympathy for the girl. How many times had she been in the same position, crying herself to sleep behind the bed curtains, but because of something that had been said or done to her by the infinitely more socially powerful Isabelle Davis? It had been more times than she’d thought to count, and in the end it was too many. She hadn’t always been so lucky to have the friends that she did, few that they were, and becoming fewer by the day.  
  
But by god, could she sympathize if she’d wanted to. She could recall precisely the thoughts that were swirling in Isabelle’s head, and she chose not to care. Couldn’t bring herself to care. That might make her one of the worst sorts of people, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about that, either. Not when it concerned a girl who had done no less than bully and torment her for the last four and a half years.  
  
She wrenched the curtains on her own bed closed and shoved everything to the foot of her bed. The letter could wait for tomorrow. She turned away from Isabelle’s bed and pulled her covers over her head, hoping it would drown out the sound enough for her to sleep soundly.  
  


~*~

  
  
_March 1977_  
Even a month after Fenrir Greyback's escape and the consequent outing of two Magical Law Enforcement employees as Death Eaters (if posthumously, in one case), Bartemius Crouch, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, found himself personally barraged with questions and concerns ranging from the security of MLE personnel, or lack thereof, to what specific sort of team was going to be sent after the werewolf, to specific dates by which he planned on apprehending and executing the werewolf. All of this was very startling to both him and his assistant, who suffered a large amount of post on any given day from any number of concerned citizens. The Death Eaters elicited terror, but a werewolf fugitive who maimed children really brought the populace out of the woodwork, and for the first time in a number of years, Barty Crouch read letters that held genuine criticism from people he respected.   
  
The public had  _doubt_  in his ability to handle a situation. It was an unpleasant thing to realise.   
  
He folded a letter from one of the Vances and put it in his pocket, and as he passed the desk of his assistant, he simply called, "Emily!" as he went directly into his office.   
  
Understanding, she followed him into the office. "Yes, Mr Crouch?" She stood with notebook in hand, poised to take note of and complete any orders.   
  
He waved that part off; it was only nine o'clock, and he had to prepare himself for the rest of the day. "Any new post, new memos? Anything of note at all?"   
  
"Of course, sir, I'll have it on your desk directly." She paused and pursed her lips. "Mr Crouch, there's an op-ed – "   
  
Crouch sat forward heavily and looked at her over the top of his glasses. "These op-eds, that's all you tell me about, haven't we a war to fight and a country to run?  _Op-eds_ , as though they've any idea what goes on in here unless I tell them myself – nonsense, Emily – "   
  
Emily gave him a look of clear unamusement. "Mr Crouch, you ask me to keep track of things, and I do. You told me yourself that the papers deserve watching, as they say what the public wants to hear. It's the voice of the people." At his equally unamused silence, she went on. "There's an op-ed suggesting that you send a team of Hit Wizards after Fenrir Greyback."   
  
He let out a great huff but caught hold of his temper and merely sighed. "What good is it to send  _another_  team when my Aurors – my  _Aurors_ , who regularly track down criminals and murderers of all sorts, Death Eaters even – have had no luck, when Magical Creatures has yet again fallen completely silent when the country actually requires them, for once – "   
  
"Sir," she interrupted, prim and yet patient, "I'll close the door if you mean to rant today, but you only have seven minutes' leeway in your schedule."   
  
"Seven minutes?" Crouch repeated, astounded. "My schedule is packed for all but seven  _minutes_? Good god, what hordes could possibly all need to talk to me  _today_ , of all days?"   
  
Emily chose that moment to decide that today was a ranting day, and closed the door. "Mr Bulstrode, Hit Wizard Head, Mr Gibbon, our contact with Azkaban, three reporters have requested time with you but they may have to fight to the death for it, as there's only room for one – "   
  
"When will the press understand the  _rules_ ," he said, simmering. "I am a press-friendly man, but there are  _rules_. I grant them interviews, or they can contact the press secretary. The utter  _nerve_." He paused. "Who's asking?"   
  
She referred to the list. "Ah. Williamson, O'H – "   
  
He cut her off. "Bring Williamson in, I'll set him straight, and remind any others that contact you of the rules we've set. What does Bulstrode have to say to me?"   
  
Emily pursed her lips again, and held out an unmarked envelope for him. "He left this for you, sir."   
  
Crouch gave her a stern look – that expression of hers never boded well – and opened the envelope, his exasperation only growing as a newspaper clipping fell out of it. He read only two lines of the op-ed, those underlined in red, and beside which were marked two words in Marvin Bulstrode's handwriting –  _He's right._  
  
"This is not the time for the head of the Hit Wizards to decide to involve himself in widespread MLE policy," he snapped, staring at the piece. And he so enjoyed the press when they behaved.   
  
"Don't seem like any of your people are listenin' to you these days, are they, Barty?"   
  
Emily and Crouch both looked up at Alastor Moody, who had managed to open the door and come inside without making a sound or visible movement. He closed the door behind him in the surprised silence, and Crouch regained his senses at that. "It's polite to knock," he said.   
  
"My mistake." Moody gave a grim sort of smile. "Didn't realise you were runnin' a charm school. You mind excusin' us, Miss?" he added to Emily.   
  
Crouch knew the answer before he asked, but he said it anyway. "Is he on the schedule?"   
  
"No," Emily said, not quite looking at the most accomplished Auror still employed, possibly ever.   
  
Moody gave a gruff snort. "Something's come up," he said, "Real world doesn't run out of appointment books, after all."   
  
"Yes, I know that," Crouch sighed, and gestured for Emily to go. Once the door shut, he looked to Moody. "Well, make it quick."   
  
"King and Davis came up like scum on a pond. No one was surprised, not saying that, but my meaning is, you never know around here – "   
  
Crouch heard enough of this in the letters, but from the Aurors... "Nonsense, we have many trusted employees who have worked for us many years, Auror Moody, King and Davis were – "   
  
"They were Death Eaters! Low-level, no Marks on  _their_  arms, but through-and-through and dedicated enough to lose their lives just to free a werewolf, and  _no one_  here saw it comin', or if they did, they wanted it to happen." Moody stomped his foot in his impatience. "Have to be more careful about who we've hired and who we let handle things like the damn keys, Barty, that's for sure – "   
  
He held up his hand to stop Moody's rampage, but was inevitably forced to cut him off in order to speak. "And your suggestion is, Auror Moody?"   
  
Moody snorted a laugh. "Surprise security check, make sure everyone, and I mean everyone, is who they say they are. No lettin' the old friends get off easy. Thought you'd like this one – it'll look good in the papers,  _sir_."   
  
The disdain and shouting always gave Crouch a headache, but the man was a fine Auror, so he set his jaw and dealt with it. "Thank you, your experience proves useful once again."   
  
Moody gave a curt nod. "Another thing," he said, raising a finger. "Put the Longbottoms on King, either one of 'em. They're the best you got in that Auror office, excepting me."   
  
King. He chose not to think about her, a family friend who he had pulled strings back when he was an administrative assistant to get a job. "That interrogation's already been assigned to, ah, two more seasoned Aurors."   
  
"Oh yeah?" Moody considered that. "How're they doing with her?"   
  
He'd heard about Susanna King, the victorious suspect, breaking the first two Aurors who spent hours in an interrogation room. Of course. "The case is being reassigned. Take it up with the Auror office, please, these things are not my direct concern. Is that all?"   
  
Moody shook his head at him. "I mean it, Barty, better move now or you'll end up fightin' Death Eaters with Death Eaters, if you get my meaning." He limped back towards the door.   
  
"We take many precautions, Auror Moody, I hope you realise," Crouch said sharply.   
  
Moody looked at him as he opened the door. "Not enough," he said, and left.   
  
Crouch sat back at his desk, exhausted, and checked the clock. It was only nine-thirty. He exhaled, took a sip of his already cold tea, and just like that, Emily was back at his door. "Marvin Bulstrode for you, Mr Crouch," she informed him, and he nodded back.   
  
He stood and greeted, "Mr Bulstrode," giving the bulky man a firm handshake and a strained but polite smile. Just like that, he resigned himself to a day of humiliation as he had every morning since Fenrir Greyback's escape had eliminated his chance of one.   
  


~*~

  
  
_April 1977_  
The day had been a slow one, just the sort that Owen was growing to enjoy in the months following Erin’s death. The spring was coming – Erin’s April birthday was approaching, but they pushed it from their minds. Instead they busied themselves with their activities in their various domains. Brighid kept busy in the house, Owen threw himself into work and both did what they could to keep Jeremy occupied, but that was a lot harder than it sounded.  
  
He approached his house at dusk, lost in thought, but made himself slip out of it as he came closer. The house was still, but that was not unusual. Approaching the door, he spied some parchment wedged in the door and frowned. People usually sent their messages by exploding post or tied to a rock through a window. He pulled it out of the door and opened it there on the porch. His face immediately fell, his stomach sank, and his heart raced. Even though it had likely been left hours ago, he looked up in every direction for the note’s author. When he was nowhere to be found, he opened the door with such force that it hit the outside of the house and made a beeline for his study, not bothering to close the door.  
  
Brighid heard the door slam open – and worse, not close – from where she sat reading the evening edition and called, “Jeremy, close the door!” until she saw her husband stalk past without a word towards his study. “Owen?” she asked as a courtesy before just following him into his study. “ _Owen._ ”  
  
Owen didn’t seem to hear his wife at first, but stood behind his desk and stared at the note that he’d dropped on top of the other parchments. “What?” he said, a bit off balance.  
  
“Owen, what’s going on?” she demanded in her Mum voice, growing more insistently frightened by the second.  
  
He hesitated for a moment, unable to decide what to do. He looked up. “Did you see anyone unusual around today?  _Anyone_?” he asked with a great deal of urgency.   
  
“No, not at all, now what’s going on, Owen?” Brighid went to his side in hopes of talking sense into him more directly. “I haven’t seen anyone.”  
  
He paused for a moment and shut the door to the study with a wave of his wand. Another pause, and he also locked it. “I… am not even sure where to – ” He picked the note up and held it out to her. “I came home just now and this was in the door. It… I think we need some stronger wards,” he concluded.  
  
She looked at the handwriting, then read the note, and put her hand to her mouth as she paled. “Owen,” she breathed. “This isn’t – it can’t be. There’s no way that he could have got through the wards. He’s a  _fugitive_.”  
  
“Exactly, he’s not going to be going by normal avenues, Brighid,” he said, moving at a terrifically frantic pace through the room, unable to keep still. “The wards don’t allow Apparation for fifty yards but really, do we have anything that is going to work for this case?”  
  
Brighid’s panic was rising. “It’s not the wards I’m concerned about, it’s that he can get into town and right to our door, and no one seems to care! Fenrir Greyback is all over the newspaper – and an  _actual threat_ , for once! – and still no one notices him, how is that possible?”  
  
Owen hesitated and pulled at his hair as he continued to move. “I don’t… I don’t know. He knows the area, with the wooded area around I wouldn’t say it’s impossible.” Not that it made it any better. “It… we’ll set something up and just be careful. All three of us. Keep our eyes open.”  
  
Brighid grabbed his arm to stop him, giving it a hard squeeze to snap him back into sense. If he lost control, so would she. “We can do it, there’s no need to panic,” she said. “We’ll strengthen the wards, tell Jeremy, keep him inside and entertained more often – Fenrir’s a fugitive, he can’t get away with this for long. He can’t – ”  _He can’t take him from us._  
  
He stopped in front of her, anchoring himself by taking hold of her arms. “Yes,” he said, more to calm himself down and stop his frenetic pacing. He forced himself to think, refusing to give in to the persistent guilt, but the fear of losing his last child to this madman took its place. “Yes, we can do all that,” he started, and then stopped, struck by another thought. “I don’t think we can tell Jeremy. Not outright.”  
  
She felt tears pricking her eyes and forced it back, closing her eyes. “No, he has to know. He has to know the sort of danger he’s in, if he sneaks out or stays out late or goes wandering, it won’t matter what sort of wards we have, he’ll be gone before we have a chance to do a thing, Owen!”  
  
“He blames himself, Brighid,” he said urgently. He made himself slow down, and touched her face briefly. “He blames himself for what happened, for not saving Erin. You have a very good point, I – there’s no reason to argue against it. But he blames himself and I can’t help but think what his reaction will be if he knows that he’s at the center of the threat.”  
  
“You don’t think he’ll – ” She had to stop and reconsider before daring to say it, and wisely rethought it. Thoughts about anything Jeremy would do besides staying with them didn’t even bear consideration. “You’re right. I don’t want to… he’s a teenage boy, he’s not got much to do, we shouldn’t – _startle_  him.”  
  
“No. It would not do,” Owen agreed, and forced a smile for her. “We’re just going to have to be careful, and make Jeremy be more careful as well.”  
  
Brighid could at least manage a slight smile at his. “I think I’m going to fix us both a strong drink. You stay here – no work, do you hear me? We’ll work on this problem tomorrow.”  
  
He kissed her on the cheek quickly and unlocked the office door for her with a wave of his wand. She went, and he approached his desk again. He read the note again, swallowing, and forced himself to be numb to it. The hardly veiled threat against his son – his son, not Fenrir’s – read plainly, and terribly.  
  
Quickly, Owen unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept all of the important papers, usually legal, but in this case it could serve for a hiding place. One of the rules of the house was that Owen’s desk was off limits to the children, but of course that had never stopped Jeremy or Erin and he was sure that wasn’t likely to change. He dropped the note in and closed the drawer, locking it up again – unfortunately, out of sight was not out of mind.


	5. Those You've Known

_Growing up in a war is difficult. I'm not saying being an adult is easy, but we cannot minimize the effect that being a teenager in the “You-Know-Who” years has had on an entire generation. We weren't children and couldn't go back to toy broomsticks every time a Dark Mark flew into the sky, but neither were we adults. Our small dramas became our refuge, distracting us from the terror, death, and men in masks we were made to believe laid in wait around every corner. Just like young marriages and reckless living, it was a symptom of the times not all of us managed to survive._ Stewart Cauldwell, _A Shadow Cast By Green Light: A Wartime Memoir_ , 1984.

_July 1977_  
Remus left the Hogwarts Express home for the summer as fast as his feet would carry him and Disapparated just outside King’s Cross, making for his home in Pembrokeshire. The unspeakable anger towards Sirius started to fade into an ache of betrayal that reached into his bones, one he could push away, ignore, maybe even forgive, at a distance – but the betrayal awoke anger in the wolf. The wolf’s anger fed his own anger, which kept the wound fresh, and began a vicious cycle. Remus might have thought he could forgive, but the wolf knew betrayal, which was exactly what Sirius had done.

Being kept at home was not much of a cure. Things were tense there, and Remus was certain there was something his parents were not telling him. His mother did her best to keep him at home with her, and Alexander was even more terse than usual. The wards were augmented considerably, from what Remus could glean, and, upon questioning, his father simply said that they were living in dangerous times. He understood that well enough, with a Muggle mother, but the feeling that he was the reason did not fade.

Remus spent a week not talking to his father aside from things such as “pass the salt,” but that was just not awkward enough. He was reading (what else?) when his mother called him down from his room, and he stopped on the landing when he saw who was in the foyer.

Whatever deity watched above for a good laugh at his expense arranged the next debacle of the very screwed up life and times of Remus Lupin. 

Sirius Black stood there, elegantly aristocratic even in denim trousers and a t-shirt, with a smile at something Nichole was saying. Remus caught a flash of – was it fear? – in Sirius’s grey eyes when their gazes connected, and the wolf reacted – not with violence, as it did with Alexander, instead with dismissal, as though saying _oh, it’s you._

Though the wolf moved from hurt and anger to indifference, Remus couldn’t. In the past week, he’d buried most of his feelings away, but the betrayal still burned. Despite all hopes that it would fade before he saw Sirius again, here he was and here it was, unearthed and raging again with a vengeance.

His mother speaking ended the awkward reverie. “Would you boys like anything, tea, biscuits…?”

“No thanks, mum. We’ll be in the sitting room,” Remus answered, before the off-colour flirtation that he knew was coming could tumble out of Sirius’s mouth. Sirius muttered a thank you to Nichole and followed him into said sitting room, seemingly aware that this was no pleasant chat and not looking forward to it. He began looking around the room with interest, and Remus closed the door.

When he turned around to face Sirius, Sirius was holding up the aura glass that his father kept on his desk and studying him through it. “What do you want?” Remus asked with his tireless patience, although there was a note of coldness to it.

“You’re yellow, Moony,” was his reply. Indeed, Remus’s aura was a mingling of yellows from the dark to the pale, tinged with black. If he’d been any sort of Divination student, Sirius would have known that yellow was a colour of optimism and cheerful people, darker yellows indicated intellect and according to other sources, shyness. Black was indicative of illness or a secret to hide. (Of course he wouldn’t know this, because he only took the class as it was too entertaining to not take. The Hufflepuff girl who liked to flirt and had nice legs was probably a factor as well.)

Remus sent a patently unamused look Sirius’s way, and Sirius lowered the aura glass to replace it on the desk. He slid his hands into his pocket and leaned on the desk in an attempt to look nonchalant. “James reckoned I was being a prat about what I did, and should apologize.”

Remus blinked at Sirius, then let out a harsh, mirthless laugh. “ _James_ reckoned,” he said, unable to do anything but stand there and keep himself from shaking with rage. 

“He did.”

Sirius seemed nowhere near apologetic or even interested in what was going on, and Remus somehow doubted he even grasped the gravity of what he’d done. That made him angrier. The wolf paced mentally, agitated and – ready to pounce? He pushed it down; this was for him to deal with, as the wolf didn’t know the difference between plain anger and being wronged. “So if James reckoned it was a good idea for you to eat Doxy eggs, you’d do it?”

“Damn it, Remus, not the same,” Sirius snapped. “I came, I saw, I apologised. I heard all the sodding bloody details from Dumbledore and had to apologize to _Snivellus_ too, so d’you think you can stop being thick about it? I get it.”

“You haven’t actually apologized.” Remus advanced into the room for the first time. “You said _James_ said you should apologise and I don’t think you get it at all. What you did was reprehensible and dangerous not only for Snape but me as well!”

“Kind of the point,” the taller boy replied as if to say _duh._ “Moony, he was _watching_ us, trying to see where you headed every month. If he wanted to know that badly –“

“So you thought you’d just go and _tell_ him?” Remus raised his voice over Sirius’s protests. “He mightn’t have ever found out, just suspected, but you right out told him where to find me and he knows and thinks I was in on your little trick.” Speaking the words out loud had a worse effect than merely thinking them.

Siriuis was clearly becoming irritated as well, and likely bothered by the fact that the normally mild-mannered Remus Lupin was now yelling at him. “Nothing happened,” he said. “And even if it had, the slimy git’d deserve it.”

“ _Don’t say that_ ,” Remus hissed. If he yelled any more, his mother was going to investigate, and he’d have to explain or make up an excuse. He really wasn’t up to either right now. “Don’t – don’t you ever say something like that. You have no idea what you’re talking about, this-“

“Moony, listen to yourself for a minute,” he interrupted, and adopted a calm and rational tone. “Nobody got hurt.”

“ _I_ got hurt,” he ground out in return. The wolf was beginning to share his agitation and wanted control, but Remus again pushed it down. “You _used_ me for your own selfish revenge purposes, don’t pretend to have done otherwise. You weren’t protecting me or my secret, you wanted to hurt Snape.”

“So what if I did?” Sirius snapped. “He’s not exactly _your_ biggest fan, Remus, why are you making this such a big deal? It’s over, dealt with, done, he’s been forbidden by Dumbledore to say anything.”

Remus could do nothing but stare for a second, his mind literally frozen with outrage and unable to formulate a response. There was no point in denying how much Snape disliked him – all of them – and Remus wasn’t really fond of him either. Still, there’d never been a personal problem, until now. Even so, his “furry little problem,” as James would have put it, was not something he would have wished on anyone, a worst enemy or otherwise.

Not even Snape.

There was no sane way to explain the affliction. The wolf bristled at the term that made it sound like an illness ( _I am not a sickness to be cured, I am you_ ), but the wolf was what made it tricky – what would he say, there was a wolf with him all the time and he could sometimes get rid of it when he really, really wanted to? That was a one way ticket to any locked, rubber room in the country. It sounded _insane._ “That’s not the point,” he finally managed evenly to Sirius.

“What _is_ the point?”

“The point is that you weren’t _thinking_. What if I’d bit him? Or killed him? Do you think they bother sending werewolves to Azkaban? Let me tell you that they don’t,” he snapped. “It is considered negligence and intent to murder if a werewolf is not properly restrained from doing so. There is a brief trial which is more of a nicety than an exercise of the judicial system, after which the Dementor’s Kiss is implemented.”

For the first time in their conversation, Sirius appeared abashed as he wrapped his head around the fact that if Remus had bitten Snape, he wouldn’t be there now. “Oh,” he finally mumbled in a very un-Siriuslike way.

“Yes, oh,” Remus said with a new calm, somewhat satisfied in that at least Sirius appeared to be grappling now with the enormity of what he’d done. It was almost a sadistic pleasure to see him examining the pattern of the rug, struck into silence. “That’s why the big deal. And really, just knowing is going to be enough power for him. He might not tell anyone but it’s bad enough, especially after – ” He cut himself off, pursing his lips.

“’specially after what, Moony?” Sirius asked casually, attempting to minimize the inquisitiveness of the question by picking up the aura glass again and looking at himself through it by way of the mirror over the mantle, seeing a violent shade of Gryffindor red. He put it down again and glanced at Remus.

“Just… nothing.” Remus dismissed it. Nothing, and yet everything. After all the trouble that his family had gone through to keep his condition a secret… His parents hadn’t liked that his roommates had found out, creating three more unnecessary risks that the family didn’t need to take. To be ruined… Remus still feared that something could happen and he would not be invited back to Hogwarts in September.

Sirius shrugged. “Nothing nothing?”

“Nothing nothing,” Remus confirmed. “But that’s why I’m upset. I cannot be friends with a person who plays with my life and… and _uses_ me like that.” Remus really wished that he were better at holding a grudge than he was, instead of forgiving at the drop of a hat. This was one he’d like to hang onto for the next twenty years, even after the already hazy details had long disappeared.

Sirius nodded slowly, pensively. Remus waited for some smart rebuttal, but instead Sirius said, “Well, apology made – ”

“You haven’t – ”

“In _spirit_ , Moony. I… I get it now.” Remus could believe that he ‘got it’ this time, with no such show of levity in his expression as usual, that look of a puppy waiting for affirmation. Remus merely nodded and like that, the apology was accepted.

Sirius clapped his hands, looking plainly relieved, and rubbed them together briskly. “Excellent! Now with that done, the invitation has been extended to you from James’s household, because he needs to be teased mercilessly about writing Lily Evans and I can only take so much of that onto my shoulders.”

“A heavy job for just one person?” he asked dryly.

“A bloody burden, we’ll have to get Peter involved as well,” was his answer.

Remus cracked a smile. “I’ll have to tell my mother, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Oh, please, allow me, the lovely Nichole Lupin cannot go without seeing my lovely, shining face – ”

“ _Stay_ ,” Remus said sternly, pointing at Sirius in mock threat. Sirius broke into a wide grin at that, and the corners of Remus’s mouth tugged upwards as well. “Try not to break anything in here, will you? Some of this is quite old.”

“Ha, anything in here is a bloody _infant_ compared to what lines the walls of my parents’ house.”

He left the room without answering Sirius, taking the mention of _his_ family as a signal of a détente being reached. Sirius rarely spoke of his family, and only to the three of them, the three he trusted most and felt most comfortable with. Remus also felt better, lighter, and a bit happier. He could only hope that Snape intended to keep his word to Dumbledore, but that was a bridge that could be crossed later, if it ever came.

~*~

Julia paced in front of the fireplace in the Frobisher house, making a rut in the rug. Her nerves were getting the better of her, just when she'd resolved to make the journey to go see Jeremy. She'd picked up Floo powder and returned it to the dish twice now, dusting the remains off of the nervous sweat on her palms. It didn't seem to get any easier each time. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the mantle. _Why are you so nervous?_ she asked silently, and found she didn't have an answer – at least, not one she liked.

Maybe this was just the anxiety one felt when one hadn’t seen a friend in ages. Since December, even. She was really glad she hadn't mentioned the possibility of an excursion to the Curenton house to Gilly or anyone else, or there would have been no end to the badgering or the questions, questions that possibly had answers she wasn't certain of yet. She nearly chickened out, but felt a small body pushing against her leg. She looked down and Odysseus, her cat, was pushing his head against her leg, almost urging her to go -- or begging to be petted. Either way, with these nerves, it was not a sign that she could afford to ignore. 

She stepped up and took some Floo powder and threw it into the grate. "The Curentons," she announced before stepping in and letting the network carry her along. Soon enough, she arrived, although was not yet admitted into the house. She hit her head sharply on the grate, rendered senseless for a moment before she yelped, "OW," which she immediately regretted. Her lungs filled with soot as she began to cough, while the grate held fast.

A woman appeared on the other side of the grate, stared at Julia for an instant, then quickly moved to free her from the flue. “I’m sorry, dear, so sorry, you can’t imagine -- are you here for Jeremy? I’ll fetch him in a mo, let’s sort you -- “

As Julia was led to the kitchen to have a seat at the table, Jeremy peered inside. "What the hell is going on, Mum?" He stared at the scene, and took a step back at who he thought the new arrival was. "Julia?" 

Brighid stood, awkward, and snatched a towel from a nearby rack to hand to the girl. "Jeremy, watch your language." She went to attend to the stew, eyeing the two carefully. "I promise,I never meant to lock out friends of Jeremy's, I’m not that sort of mother, it's only the press..." 

Jeremy shifted awkwardly for a moment, frozen to the spot at the realisation that Julia Frobisher was in his kitchen. The wolf nudged him, uncomfortable and aggravated at his nerves, and gave him a push to speak. "Er, hi."

Her throat burned and her eyes watered as she coughed into the dishtowel that Jeremy's mother handed her. She tried hiding her face in it, but that only worked for so long. She pulled herself off the tile, and after one last, full-bodied cough, said, "Hi, Jeremy," towel still clutched in her hands.

Jeremy shot his mother an insolent look, and strode both up to and past Julia. He indicated that she follow with a gesture with his head as he unlocked the door, glancing past her at his mother. "We'll be outside. On the porch probably, but might show her around, is that all right?"

Brighid set her ladle down with a clunk, looking more than a little exasperated. "You can go up to the Den but try not to wander around town, will you? There's not much to see, anyhow." 

He propped the door open with his foot, impatient, the wolf almost wholly at the helm now. "Yeah, right, Mum, we’ll behave, Julia, are you coming?" His brash expression faded to worry as he turned to her, before he finally looked away.

"I -- yeah. Yes," she answered, placing the dishtowel on the counter, not sure of what else to do with it. She wanted to apologise for her grand entrance, but there didn't seem to be appropriate words. Instead, she backed out of the kitchen awkwardly and followed him outside. "Sorry," she blurted out.

"You don't have to apologise." Jeremy checked to make certain the door was unlocked before closing it behind her. "I should be apologising. She should be, really. I'm sorry," he concluded, and called up the courage to look her in the face, hoping she wouldn't see the wolf and run for the hills right away. "I'm glad you're here."

Julia concentrated on his face, somehow the same and different all at once. She hadn't counted on this, the realisation of exactly how hard it had been for that face to not suddenly appear across from her at a table in the library, or not have him jabbering Quidditch at her for an entire Herbology period. She swallowed, aware of how red her cheeks must be, and said, "I'm glad I came."

_I missed you_ was all that came to mind, but it was too pathetic and too obvious all at once, so he made himself think of something. Anything, so the conversation would go on and he wouldn't just look at her for the rest of the afternoon. "It, ah. It must be good to be on hols."

Right. Talking. "It's -- yeah. It's a nice change from... " From what? Anything she said was going to sound trite, she was willing to bet. "It's good to be on hols," she agreed. "How are you?"

The wolf wanted him to walk away, but he couldn’t look away from her, like it had been years instead of months, and through the mental noise of that struggle he could barely think up an answer. "I'm -- I'm all right. Besides the paranoid parents and the whole full moon thing, it's all right. You didn't have to come," he added upon realising he'd pointed directly at the hippogriff in the room. "I'm... fine, really, it's all right." _You don't have to pity me._ The wolf gave him a distinct impression of disdain at his cowardice.

She smiled slightly, taking him at his word. "Okay," she said. Hearing it from his mouth really made her feel better. "I... I'm really glad to hear that."

The corner of his lips tugged into a smile at hers, almost automatically, while he tried to remember what they were talking about. "Yeah," he said. "Hey, you want to see the Den?"

She hesitated slightly for no real reason, and she said, ""Well... yeah. Okay, that would be good. Is it far?"

"Not at all, it's just up the hill." Jeremy sent her a genuine smile. "My parents won't let me far enough to make a real break for it, after all."

"Don't worry, mine won't either," she said, dry. She busied her hands by tying her dark hair back, unsure of what to do with them once that was completed. "Up the hill, eh," she said conversationally as they started off.

"All the convenience of home with a few werewolf packs or packless werewolves for flavour," he joked. "It's five minutes if you run fast enough." _I used to race Erin._ Even the thought made him ache. "I'd race you, but we both know who'd win."

"I am a pretty fast runner," she said in a mock boast. She settled for putting her hands in the pockets of her shorts, and walked along. "You're a pretty fast runner when the occasion calls for it, though," she added casually.

He laughed, and hard -- he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that -- and went on with mock indignance, "Mrs Norris does a great Slytherin's Monster impression, I can hardly be blamed."

God, she had missed this -- missed him. "Better not to take chances when we're being confronted with a possible Slytherin's Monster," she agreed finally.

"That's my general strategy. Speaking of Slytherin's Monster, any new Isabelle stories to tell me?" he asked, deadpan.

" _Eugh._ Miss Queen of the Backhanded Compliment?" she asked dryly. "We played in the Quidditch final a few weeks ago and we won against Gryffindor, of course, Gilly didn't speak to me for three days, but that's not the point, right. There was a celebration and I wasn't 'round long or anything, but of course she finds me. So I'm standing there, right, and she walks up and says to me – " She stopped long enough to take her hands out of her pockets and adopt a posture that mocked Isabelle's. "'Oh Julia, you all just played _fantastic_ today! I could never manage such a thing, but it really takes a... _special_ kind of ah, _girl_ to play like that in a man's game." She made a face, dropping her arms. "As if one of the leading chasers in League history isn't a woman."

"Well if she's using herself as a model for women, naturally her sort wouldn't be up for Quidditch. Half-transformed Veelas can't quite catch the Quaffle what with their claws." He imitated a Veela in bird form grasping with its claws, face squinting up in full animated imitation.

Now it was Julia's turn to laugh hard. "Isn't _that_ the bloody truth," she gasped, holding on to her stomach. "'Evil bitch' isn't exactly a subspecies known for their throwing and catching, either," she added.

"Oh, I bet the only thing she could catch on the pitch would be the clap," he said with great cheer.

"Ew," she said with a grimace, but laughed again.

"You know, that's one thing I miss, mocking Davis with the two of you," he said. "You and Broadmoor and anyone else who had the bollocks, to be fair." He paused, but went ahead and said it, though it certainly changed the tone of the conversation. "And you. I missed you."

The words struck her so suddenly that she was forced to look up at him, but she immediately looked away again when there was no hint of irony or untruth. "I missed you," she made herself admit, since he said it first.

He looked in the direction they headed, where the Den would soon come into sight, and damned himself for bringing the conversation to this anxious point. Situations like this only brought the constant uncertainty of the wolf to a fever pitch, and now he was fucked. "Julia," he said, and reconsidered what he was going to say once, twice, three times. "Thanks. For this."

"Yeah?" she said faintly, and gave a smile to match. "I thought -- I don't know. You might not want me here, or..." She cut herself off, burying any other thoughts deep into her brain. She shrugged and let her fringe fall in her face to serve as a conclusion.

"That's. No." Jeremy was genuinely astonished. "That's not it at all. Uh. Consider yourself officially welcome, despite the... fireplace grate thing. We've had reporters."

"Ah. Say no more," she said and looked up as she approached the house that had come to be known as the Den. "This it?" she asked casually, but undeniably interested.

"This is it." He couldn’t hide his proud grin. "The Den, a sanctuary or a nest of chimaeras, depending on who you ask."

"It's a little... enclosed for a nest of chimaeras, I should think," she said, suddenly feeling shy again.

"Also, it's still standing," Jeremy said mildly. "After ... what is it, thirteen years now? Something like that. I barely remember anything before it, anyway." The wolf wanted to run, but he forced it back, tensing. "It's better than it looks, I swear."

"That's a long time," she said, returning the tone. "And it isn't -- well, it doesn't look that bad or anything."

"It's not exactly the Shangri-La is all I mean," he amended, and before he could stop his rebellious hand, it was resting on the small of her back. He let it drop the instant he felt her move and realized, going on to look at the house and speak as though nothing happened at all, though his voice rose: "It's growing on me now, though."

She jumped slightly and looked up at him, and away quickly again. It was probably an accident. "Yeah?" she said, and cleared her throat. "You spend a lot of time here, then?"

"Yeah," he answered, and crammed his hands into his pockets to avoid a situation like that again. "It's the only place I'm allowed to go, really. Since Dad's usually here. We'll have to dodge him unless you want an autograph," he added with a smirk.

"Um." She went a little red again. "I did read the book," she muttered under her breath.

He looked at her finally. "Sorry, what?" he asked.

Julia leaned against the railing of the stairs to the porch. "Your dad's book. I, um, read it."

Jeremy looked back at her with surprise and completely genuine admiration. "You did? That's great, I'll tell him, we're always glad to know that there aren't a thousand copies with unbroken spines on bookshelves across the UK. Or bonfires, either way." He opened the door for her. "And now a personal tour from one of the Den's own werewolves to cap off your reading, aren't you lucky."

She laughed, and ducked inside past him. "I suppose I am a pretty lucky girl, at that," she said, looking around the foyer. "It looks... just like it's described," she added, poking her head around the corner into the front room.

He looked in as well. "...Except for one thing," he said, and called into the room, "You'd better not have any stakes on that game, no gambling here, come on!"

"Aren't you running a pool in town?" one of the card-playing werewolves called back, clearly skeptical.

Jeremy shook his head. "In town's in town, you know the rules -- is that a bottle?" Three months of being a prefect and now he was policing werewolves. "Get rid of it."

"What bottle, I don't see any bottle," a second werewolf said, trying to keep his cards hidden while passing said bottle to the third werewolf at the table.

Jeremy wished that they hadn't pulled this while Julia was here. "Two rules in this entire house and you can't follow either of them? No drinking, no gambling, you can do anything else."

"There's nothing else _to_ do, little Curenton," the third werewolf returned, unashamed to take a long drink from the bottle. "Better figure that one out sooner than later."

Julia looked between Jeremy and the three of them as the conversation continued, quiet and trying to be inconspicuous as possible. The second was examining her in a way that she wasn't exactly sure that she felt comfortable about -- then again, she didn't much like it when anyone stared at her, for whatever reason. "Eh, forget it," he said. "He's got a witch with 'im, he'll get it eventually."

"Leave her out of this," Jeremy said in a flash, heated. "Just count yourself lucky if my dad doesn't kick the three of you back into town for this." He left the room again, going into the corridor to ignore the wolf as it seemed to try to reach out to its brethren. _It's not worth it,_ he told it, and exhaled when that didn't help at all.

She left in a hurry after him, leaving the three to whatever vices they may or may not be engaging in. "It's fine, no big -- are you okay?" she started, but immediately became concerned.

He looked up at her more by instinct than anything else, but barely registered it -- he was struggling too hard for control, while the wolf stubbornly reached out to Julia and Jeremy tried to regain some ground in his head. "I, uh, yeah, I'm fine. My dad's office is over here." He pressed on, ignoring it, but it only made it worse.

"Oh -- okay," she said, but still it nagged at her. "Are you sure? You just -- "

"Jeremy? Is that you?" Owen called from inside the office.

"Yeah, I'm here." Jeremy leaned on the wall outside of the office with his hand clenched in his hair as though he could rip the wolf out of his skull. He turned his eyes back to Julia, tried his best at an apologetic look and mouthed, _Sorry._

She shrugged slightly, still more concerned than anything. Owen appeared in the form of a mixed blessing, peering at them from the doorway. On the one hand, she didn't have to think of something else to say to Jeremy and on the other... she _was_ going to have to talk to his dad. "Jeremy, hello... Jeremy's friend," he greeted them.

"... Hi," she said, wincing when it came out in a squeak.

Jeremy could think quickly but not in a situation like this, where things kept on conspiring to make this day harder. "Dad, this is Julia, Julia, this is my dad, Owen Curenton," he said in a bit of a rush.

There was no usual easy rhythm to Jeremy's introduction; he spoke quickly. Owen looked him over once before looking back at Julia. "Nice to meet you," he told her genially. "So, Julia... I didn't catch your last name, sorry."

"Um, he didn't give it," she said, twisting some hair around her finger. "Frobisher. Julia Frobisher."

"I see," he said slowly, contemplating her. She quickly glanced at her shoes and he felt slightly guilty for the realisation. "We're glad to have you, at any rate," he added.

The pressure cleared by just a little and Jeremy managed to step through the fog. "Ah. She read your book," he added to his father.

"Tattler," she said, pulling a face.

"And she's well-read too. How about that, Jeremy," he said dryly, unable to keep from being somewhat amused. "I hope you didn't find it too... daunting."

"Compared to the assigned readings for O.W.L.s, it was light," she made herself answer.

"She listens to me talk for hours on end, anything you write can't be too daunting, Dad," Jeremy joked, ignoring how faint and pale as he felt. "I'm going to, er, give Julia a tour of the place, then we're going to go into town, do you need anything?"

Owen gave Jeremy a mild look. "Does your mother know about your perfect plan?"

Jeremy raised his eyebrows in return. "Do you really think she'd let me go off on my own?"

"I asked you first," he returned, although they both knew perfectly well what Brighid would say if Jeremy brought up going into town. He sighed. "No, I don't need anything. But keep your eyes open and be home for dinner. _In time_ for dinner, mind, your mother's likely to blow a screw if you're late."

Jeremy put a hand to his heart. "I swear I'll be there. Early, even. This way, Julia -- I'll see you later, Dad, thanks."

"Be careful," he reminded him. "Nice to meet you, Julia."

"Yeah, um. You too," she said, and followed Jeremy.

As soon as they were far from his father’s office, he spoke firmly. "I'm fine."

"Okay." She glanced up at him. He looked a little better, colour returning to his face -- and it returned to hers for no reason at all. "So then," she started with a little sigh.

Right. He stopped and pointed up to what they could see of the stairwell. "Not much upstairs -- some bedrooms, and the reinforced full moon rooms for, well, the full moon." He swallowed before he went on. "We didn't bother building anything for me at home when we have these, so I spend the night here. It's not bad. They're dull, but the point isn't to be entertaining."

She looked up the staircase -- he was right, not much to see up there. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. "I guess so long as it works," she said, and looked back to him.

"It works." He didn't want her thinking of him like that, so he kept her moving. "Uh. There's a football pitch set up in the back. Kitchen's over here."

She grinned. "You have _football_ here?" she asked him, unable to hide her delight.

"Of course we have football here," he said, feigning offence. " _I'm_ here. That and we have to entertain ourselves."

"We-ell then.” She edged towards the back door. "Fancy a go? I'll let you win," she teased.

"Oh, don't do that, I can kick your arse without your help." She was fit when she was competitive, but he just sent her a smirk and led the way through the back door.

Three goals later for Julia, Jeremy had graciously surrendered, and suggested they head down to town. “Where exactly are we going?" Julia asked.

The wolf was enjoying this, which was a welcome respite. "Sharp as a tack, you are,” he said. “Good question. We're going into town."

"I have those sharp moments every now and then," she breathed, still running.

He stopped at the edge of a hill, taking her arm to stop her. "Wait a minute."

Julia stopped at his touch and swallowed. "Yeah?"

Jeremy released her arm and pointed off the hill down at the view of the town. "Look."

And she looked. She kind of wished that she had her camera now, the view in the late afternoon sun was spectacular. "It's nice," she remarked, and looked back at him. "Or were you pointing to something specific?"

"No, just. There it is," he said, with a gesture. "It's… I can think of worse places to be stuck for the rest of my life, right?"

"Yeah. Like London," she quipped. "I like it. Not as big as Haverfordwest, but it'll do."

"We can't all be Haverfordwest," he said dryly. "Come on, there's a great bookstore in town. When do you have to be home?"

"Well, uh," she started as they began down the hill. "I don't have to -- that is, they don't... any reasonable hour?" she ended sheepishly.

Jeremy gave her a bemused look. "You snuck out, didn't you," he teased. "Sneaking out to run around with werewolves, losing money on bets, really, Julia."

"I did not sneak out!" she protested, turning red. "To sneak out you have to be, you know, told _not_ to go somewhere and then circumvent the rule. I just... went and didn't really leave a note or anything."

"Ah, expecting to be grandfathered in with this one time, I see," he said, giving her a stern eye and tone.

"I didn't sneak out," she insisted. "You can't break a rule if there is no rule to break."

He gave a wry smile. "That’s politics."

"That's common sense, my friend."

"Would your mum see it that way?" 

"Probably not," she was forced to admit. "But she can't deny that she has never not once told me I wasn't allowed to come and see you."

"Politics," he joked. "Twiddle uses the same argument. So does Crouch. No offence, it's a good argument, but... I don't even know why I'm talking about politics. It's more interesting than any of the homeschooling my mum tries, though."

"Good argument for going to see your best friend, not such a great argument when trying to run a government?" she guessed dryly.

"'Well nothing on the books _says_ the Werewolf Registry needs to be running at its original capacity, so why should I do it?'" Jeremy imitated Maldwyn Twiddle and his dull tone, then went back to his own voice. "Bastard."

"Perfect instance of where it's not a good policy," she said, kicking a rock on the path they'd found. She didn't know much about it.

"Somewhere in the Ministry," he said, sounding less the disgruntled citizen and more thoughtful, "in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, there's a huge, shifting map of the UK. The charms on it must be amazing -- there's werewolves all over, of course, and every single one of them who was treated at St Mungo's long enough to merit notice by the Ministry has a number and a little dot on that map. Including me. Right now, they know exactly where I am right to the coordinate."

Julia looked around as if there was going to be some indication of what he had said, and immediately felt foolish. "Tracking charm," she said, understanding -- and remembering at least that much. "I mean, um -- it's an advanced charms thing is all."

"Right." Jeremy chose to ignore the part about Hogwarts. "That wasn't the purpose of the Registry, you know. It was built in, the map's been there since 1947, but now it's considered more of a tracking system for werewolves as potential risks to the wizarding community. It was supposed to be a help, a way to keep track and send people out to the werewolf packs. Now the Den's just about the only wizarding place that any packs really come. It's too bad you came on a quiet day, sometimes we get half a pack or more and it's... well, it's something else. My dad's book in action."

"Yeah?" she said, with a slight grin. "Maybe I'll have to come back, then. Get the full experience, you know," she added seriously."

"Whenever you like, we'd love to have you," he replied with great cheer. "We'll even have the grate open next time."

"Oh, good, I'm not sure if my head could handle that again. I know your mother didn't mean to or anything," she tacked on hurriedly, "but it kind of... hurt."

Jeremy tried not to laugh. "Well, I think if we got another Prophet reporter she'd have had no problem leaving them in there to figure out a way back into the Floo system while trapped inside our fireplace, but no, she didn't mean to hurt any visitors of mine."

"Bloody reporters," she murmured. "I mean -- I don't know," she finished her interjection lamely. But she'd read everything anyone at the paper had had to say about the Curentons since January, and very rarely was it complimentary or veiled.

"No, you're right, they're real bastards. They've been mocking us since they could find a reason, it's what you get for being a radical. I still think Dad asked for it what with starting a riot and everything."

"Wait, wait. _Your dad_ started a riot?"

He looked at her, surprised. "I haven't told this story before?"

She tried to remember this ever being mentioned to her in the many, many conversations they had ever had, and she was forced to say no. "I... don't think that you have," she said.

"I was about seven, Erin was really little, suddenly Mum got an owl when we were all home and took us over to Aunt Nell's," he said as the town came closer into sight. "We had no idea what was going on until a lot later, once Mum had bailed Dad out. He'd started a riot on Ministry property -- right outside the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, actually -- because of a proposed ban on werewolves living in cities. He’d gotten Carlotta Pinkstone and her sort alongside him somehow -- probably he didn’t even ask them there -- but they’re loud, started arguing, then the officials came out to send my dad off and... you read the book, you met him, you can guess how my dad reacted."

"Yeah. I can definitely guess," she replied, unable to keep from being somewhat amused -- it was a little funny. "That's..."

"Absolutely insane? Hilarious?" Jeremy outright grinned. "He actually had people _backing_ him. Or at least there with him."

"Well, that's always a nice feeling," she had to admit. "I was going to say amusing, but hey. What do I know? Where's this bookstore you were mentioning to me?"

"Oh, right, this way," he realised, and took her hand to guide her through a surprisingly large group of people crowding the street, and towards the bookstore.

Because he was busy leading them through the street, she didn't bother to try and hide the blush that crept up her neck, and let her hand tighten around his. "So. Good bookstore?" she asked as they approached it.

"Great bookstore," he said, correcting, then laughed. "I won't bore you with the books! They have a great Quidditch section, though, loads of biographies and playbooks and things like that -- _and_ they have old _Quidditch Weeklys._ "

Julia perked up visibly. "Okay, I'm sold," she concluded happily.

"I knew it," Jeremy said, released her hand, and opened the door for her. "My lady." He added a short butler's bow.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes slightly at him. "I'm the easy sell when it comes to Quidditch, you know that," she said, dropping her hand back to her side. It was dimly lit in the bookstore, but not too dim. "Wow, lots," she said, looking around and letting her eyes adjust.

"Lots. Well, they have to have something to do besides football and drinking and throwing rocks at our windows here," he said. "The magazines are this way."

"All exciting pastimes," she remarked, following him past the front counter where a bored twenty-something was reading and watched them pass without a word. They turned the corner and the aisle was filled with more of the written word concerning Quidditch than she could have shaken a stick at. " _Oh,_ " she said.

"I told you, isn't it -- this is my afterlife, right here, when I die it's going to look like this," he swore, a hand to his heart. "Wait until you see the magazines."

"You could do worse," she immediately decided, and looked at the shelves displaying not only _Quidditch Weekly_ but _Which Broomstick_ and other recent publications. "Show me magazines," she demanded finally, pulling on his arm.

He took her arm and led her a few units back, with shelves packed full of worn copies of Quidditch magazines that had survived the test of time, and some that hadn’t. "I'm back here all the time, I've still not gone through all of them."

"... This better be your afterlife, you'll need it to get through them all," she said, eyeing the bookshelves that went well over her head.

"Look." He pulled one of the magazines out. "Look, Ludo Bagman was just a rookie at this point, I remember this one." He flipped to an article and held it out. "'Promising new Beater,' ha."

She leaned in to look at the spread of the article -- as a photographer she couldn't help but feel like it could have been done better, but as a fan (yes, a fan) she just looked on in awe. "Wow," she said. "This... is a relic."

"He won't sell them, that's the worst part, I swear I've offered half of my dad's old money to the old man for just one issue, and he wouldn't move an inch." He turned the page. "Wow. Look how young the Broadmoors look."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Of course, if you listen to Gilly, they've only gotten better with age... _that_ I'm not sure about. Their stats are pretty steady, sure..."

"But steady isn't better, although considering it's pretty remarkable. Also, Gilly would say the Broadmoors could fly without brooms if she thought she could get away with it," he said, continuing to look through.

It was hard not to be amused. "That's true," she said, leaning against the bookshelf.

"Well, you can look if you like, there's loads of time until dinner and maybe you can even get away with having some of my mum's food, she's an amazing cook."

"I'd like to stay." She still wasn't able to make herself look at magazines, Quidditch or not. Whatever it was they had -- friendship, or something more -- hadn't diminished any with time or distance. She hadn’t come to visit with a motive, or even so much as an expectation of much of anything. "Jeremy," she said suddenly, but bit her lip to keep more words from escaping. Who knew what might come out next.

He looked up at her, and the way she was looking at him startled him out of the sudden moment of clarity, himself and the wolf in total unison -- and it took control for the briefest, panicked moment he had at realising how close they were. "Yeah?" he said half a second later, dazed and tense.

She didn't know what to say, so she did something instead. Straightening from where she leaned against the bookshelf, she closed the distance left and raised herself onto her toes to kiss him on the mouth. He had to kiss her and he wanted to but the wolf lashed out -- stupidly, he spited it and kissed her back like he'd wanted to the entire afternoon.

She pulled back to breathe, although it was nearly terrifying to look back up at him and wonder what he was going to say next. She bit her lip again, even more nervous than she had been before she kissed him.

"Erm," was the really intelligent thing he managed to say, after all the blathering he'd done already. "Wow."

If there was a shade of red darker than crimson, Julia was going that colour. "I, um," she replied, and swallowed. "I... wow," she agreed in conclusion.

To save them both from further crippling embarrassment, he kissed her again, letting the prized magazine fall forgotten to the floor. She gave a small noise of surprise, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as she returned the kiss. " _Brill_ ," she breathed as soon as there was a need for air.

He was speechless, but because the wolf was pressing, scrabbling, flailing out for something and he had no idea what it was or what to do about it. He rested his forehead against hers and tried to just exhale, and enjoy the fact that she was here and kissing him. "We should go," he said.

She couldn't move. Her knees had turned to something far less substantial than jelly and the only reason she managed to remain upright was because she was hanging on to him. "Go?" she asked a bit stupidly.

Jeremy didn't depend on people; he wasn't a burden, he earned his keep, his place, and his dignity, and he had no right to any of that now. He had no right to be a burden. "I can't." Still the wolf pushed with desperation, tried again and again at its pointless unknown task and failed. He swallowed.

Julia relaxed her hold and let her heels hit the ground again. She tried not to let her disappointment show, but she had always been awful at hiding any emotion that might have crossed her face. He still had his arms around her and it made her feel... she couldn't say. "You can't," she repeated.

"There's blokes at Hogwarts," he said, trying to sound confident and utterly failing, dropping his voice to a flat tone. "There's -- I can't."

_You're not,_ she thought to herself, but that was something they both knew and it wasn't something that was going to change. "None of them are you," she said instead and on a last ditch attempt to change his mind, kissed him again, with more force than the first time.

He wasn't strong enough to deny that kind of argument. When they parted again he touched her face and raised her eyes to his. "Julia," he said. "Just. Look at me. And I know this sounds mad. Can you see it?"

She knew what she had to be looking for; his father's book had described it as the wolf, but description didn't seem to do it justice. "I..." She faltered, unsure of what she should be looking for and more uncomfortable at looking into his eyes. But then she saw it -- almost imperceptible if she hadn't been looking but it was there, as sure as anything. She nodded, unable to look away.

He was such an idiot to fight her on this, but he had to do what was right. "Things are different now. I'm different." The problem still defied description, frustrating him more than the situation itself. "You should go home."

"I -- " she started again, and found she didn't really have the proper words to protest. But she made herself drop her arms back to her sides. "I'm not going home," she concluded.

"What happens when your family finds out you're snogging something out of _Fantastic Beasts_?" he retorted.

The blush rising now in her cheeks wasn't her being demure, it was her temper. "You don't even -- I came to see my best friend, I didn't know what was... I know I'm not exactly the sort who says exactly what she thinks all the time, but I don't actually care that much, you know," she said, flustered.

He moved away from her. “You should. It matters. It's not just once a month, Julia, it's every day -- forget it, let's get out of here."

She felt like someone had pulled a rug out from under her, and she had just landed flat on her back after falling through the air. "Pretty sure I won't," she said, somewhat blankly.

He hesitated, then stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry," he said, and turned to quickly walk away.

Julia reached out to touch his arm to stop him, and dropped it quickly. "I'm sorry too," she replied. "I shouldn't have... you know I don't have too many friends, and none that are... well, I just... I didn't have any designs on today. I wanted to see you. That's all."

For how great things were ten minutes ago, Jeremy couldn't believe how badly he felt now. The wolf sat sullenly, not bothering him at all, and he forced himself to nod to her. "It's... thanks for coming. I mean it."

She nodded back, and decided it wouldn't do to vomit in the bookshop. On the other hand, it would be a spectacular end to the day. "We can walk back. And if you still want me to go, I will."

"Do what you want." He hated the expression on her face, that it was his fault. "I. Yeah, whatever you want."

She couldn't do what she wanted to do. Not really. She picked up the Quidditch magazine he'd dropped and placed it back on the shelf before she walked past him to the end of the aisle.

This wasn't only what he had to do, it was what he deserved. He followed her, caught up, and said nothing as he led her through the town back to his house.

~*~

Owen was a man of many talents, but keeping time was not usually one of them. He'd long ago given up on berating himself for not going home at a wholly reasonable hour -- Brighid's looks usually said plenty, so there seemed to be no point. He'd made more of an effort since Erin's death to be home earlier, but old habits died hard. He heard Brighid in the kitchen and surmised Jeremy must still be out and about with Julia -- Julia Frobisher. He tried not to worry, but it was a law of the universe that every time you told yourself not to worry, that only became harder.

There was no reason he shouldn't be worried. There was another note from Fenrir Greyback in his bloody pocket -- another one to add to the stack of unveiled threats sitting in the hexed drawer of his desk where they sat, a source of ever growing anxiety and tension in the house. He sank into the chair at his desk momentarily to read it once more before dropping it in – another of Fenrir's promises to claim _his_ son. His temper flared and he left it on the pile, slammed the drawer shut and replaced the hex. _My son, never yours,_ he swore.

He pocketed his wand and left his office, leaving the door ajar. He entered the kitchen and put his arms around Brighid from behind, where she stood at the stove. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said, with a surprised but pleased glance back at him. "You're early, usually I've at least had to warm the food once."

"Felt like a good day to come home early," he said, straightening and moving so he could kiss her hello.

She gave him a fond kiss. "And Jeremy, when is he planning on coming back? Usually he's home before you are. It's curious."

"He'll be along," he replied somewhat evasively, leaning against the counter.

"Oh, I'm sure he will, eventually, if he isn't having too good a time with that girl. Did you see her? I think she must be the one he’s mentioned, the Slytherin girl. Came right into our grate, very forward, I should say."

"Yes, they... dropped in," he said, and contemplated saying something to Brighid about his suspicions, but decided to leave it for now. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water for a drink. "Forward? You think? She struck me as... well. Then, I suppose actions do speak louder than words."

"I hope that's not why he's late," Brighid said primly, giving the pot an idle stir.

He swallowed and gave her a wry smile. "You're worried our son is out there being seduced by a wily, pretty Slytherin?" he asked, unable to keep from being amused.

"Don't you smirk, he's too young to be left alone to snog girls," she chided, poking at him with the ladle. "He's not ready for that kind of thing."

Owen squirmed away from the ladle. "He'll be seventeen in October, I'd be highly surprised, B," he replied, safe out of the reach of her cooking utensils.

"I know my son," Brighid said, staying firm. "And he's not ready. Even if he is, he won't be going back to Hogwarts with her, and what then? I should hope he has sense enough to see that."

"Well. That's true," he was forced to concede, and stared out the window as he finished his water. "She's a friend, though. Everyone can stand to have more of those, no matter where they are."

There was nothing to say to that -- just as well, because the alarm bell started to chime as someone entered their property. "There he is," she said, more relieved than she'd like to admit.

"Indeed." He sighed. "I suppose we'll see how they filled their time," he added to her, and jumped out of the way of her ladle again.

The door opened, and Jeremy entered first, slumped and avoidant, ignoring even Julia who still followed him. He went past his parents and looked back at Julia for a moment. "I'll see you," he said, and didn't hesitate to go directly to his bedroom and shut the door.

"Bye," she said weakly as he went, left standing awkwardly in the kitchen with both of his parents. No one said anything for the longest time, and she shifted from one foot the other. "I should... I should go. May I use the Floo?" she asked.

Brighid tried not to stare at her as curiously as she wanted. "Of course, dear, I'm terribly sorry about what happened earlier. Go on."

She took some Floo powder from the dish and held it. She turned and looked at them, "Um, I'll owl, can you tell him that please?" she asked.

"Of course we shall," Owen answered, and exchanged a slightly worried look with Brighid.

Julia nodded, turned back to the fireplace, and threw the Floo powder in before calling out, "Frobishers," and letting it take her back home.

The fire died down, and Owen looked back at Brighid again. "Well," he started.

"I suppose I was wrong." Brighid looked back into the pot to examine the stew. "Do you think you should -- well."

"I'll -- " Owen started as he straightened, and nodded. "I'll go," he agreed, and squeezed her arm as he passed. He left the kitchen, climbed the stairs, and passed one closed door to approach the other and knock, asking, "Jeremy?"

"What," he answered flatly through the door.

He pushed his hair back and sighed. "May I come in?"

"Door's open."

Owen twisted the knob and let himself in. He eyed Jeremy and tried to decide how to start. "You all right?" he asked mildly.

Jeremy stared at the ceiling above his bed as though deep in thought. "Yeah," he said. "Is dinner ready yet?"

The contrast between the Jeremy in front of him and the Jeremy he'd seen an hour previous with the girl struck him, and he nodded. "Nearly," he said. After a short pause, he added, "She said she'd owl you."

"Oh yeah? Thanks," he said vaguely, ignoring the absurd urge to laugh at the situation. "I'll. Yeah. She's nice, isn't she?"

"She seemed that way, yeah," he agreed, leaning on the dresser. "Quiet, but nice."

"You're an intimidating figure, of course she was quiet," Jeremy said, deadpan.

Owen couldn't help but to smirk a bit. "Oh yes, I, the eminent author and troublemaker, professional rock in the Ministry's collective shoe."

Jeremy returned the smirk. "I told her about the riot."

"Oh, so she's heard _all_ about me. Wonderful."

"And she still spent the day with me. Shocking, isn't it?"

"Well, you're a Curenton. We're devastatingly charming and good-looking."

His good mood crashed to a halt and he felt the wolf's resentment, until he shook it off. "To a point," he said.

"Well, charming at least, then," he said dryly.

All evidence was to the contrary, so Jeremy said nothing. Owen tilted his head at him. "Whatever it was... you two will make it right," he said after a moment of silence, putting his hand on the doorknob. "We'll call up when dinner's ready."

"Thanks," Jeremy said faintly, and closed his eyes in order to retreat entirely from the days' events, hoping for sleep.

~*~

_August 1977_  
To say Alecto Carrow was brimming with excitement tonight would be to underestimate just how thrilled she was. Some shied from the duties that were given to her and her brother Amycus, as monsters and halfbreeds weren’t the usual company of Death Eaters. She found them to be inferior, of course, but something beyond that – strong, united, and vicious. It was truly an honour to bring their strength to the Dark Lord’s side.

Tonight the Carrows were going to meet Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf that _The Daily Prophet_ couldn’t go days without speaking about, and possibly the first of his kind to gain such notoriety in such a short span of time. He was rumoured to enjoy the taste of children, a concept that highly amused Alecto and made him a target for persuasion that she couldn’t wait to meet. She allowed a skip into her step as she approached the door of her brother’s flat and gave it a brisk knock. 

Amycus was just as ready as his sister for their work. He was honoured to work beside her in their Cause, and while he failed to see how the werewolf -- a nasty halfbreed race if he'd ever heard of one -- would be of use to them. He kept the question out of his mind, though, equally certain that their Lord had his reasons for seeking the fugitive Fenrir Greyback in the Welsh countryside.

The knock he'd been expecting came, and he opened his door. Alecto stood there, and he eyed her critically. "You look... excited," he said.

"...Aren't you?" She couldn't help but look surprised. "Of all the things we've done, the tasks we've been given, the things we’ve met -- we're about to meet a legend! A halfbreed legend, but nonetheless. They say half of Wales locks their children away in fear of Greyback and his pack! Not bad for a stupid beast, right? No surprise that our Lord wants him, and no better for him to send. Better now than later, who knows what werewolves do at the dead of night?"

"Take the children whose mothers have neglected to lock them up?" Amycus suggested dryly as he closed his door behind him and locked it -- not against Death Eaters as most did, but against your run of the mill crooks. "Let's go."

"There's my fearsome brother and partner," she said wryly, "they'll all cringe at the sight of your hexes, that or your five o'clock shadow -- really let's go!" She screwed up her eyes and Disapparated.

He'd opened his mouth to respond, but instead followed her quickly, landing in what he presumed was Wales. The sun was setting, but twilight was far off yet. "Right," he said, getting his bearings. "Which way are we headed again?"

Alecto straightened, shut her mouth, and scanned the surrounding landscape and hills. After a pause she nodded and pointed between two hills. "There. Used to be a village there, Dad said, until a Welsh Green from an old reserve nearby got out of its pen and burnt the damn place to the ground. I wager the wolves are living in one of the old houses there, that or our Magical Creatures informants are for shite."

"Why rule out either possibility," he said dryly, before setting off in that direction.

Alecto bounded after, taking a huge, cleansing breath of air and heaving a sigh. "Wonderful evening for a hike, don't you think? Out in the Welsh countryside. Werewolves! Do you think they'll be much more difficult than giants?"

"I suppose that depends on the werewolf," he said, looking behind them to check if they'd been followed. There was nothing there, and he turned back around. "I suppose with werewolves we can always try and outrun them if things really get hairy."

"Susanna King and Bradley Davis probably tried to run," she reminded him, and followed his gaze, paranoia now setting in. "And look at them now, imprisoned and dead. No need to underestimate them! This could be big."

"We never underestimate," he reminded her. "And Davis was a prat who -- well." It wouldn't do to speak ill of the dead, no matter how true what he'd intended to say was.

"Deserved it?" Alecto finished his sentence, tucking her hands behind her back. "You know, they may already know we're here. Giants are stupid, but werewolves are nearly men, and could have allies. Who knows who Greyback could’ve lured to his service?" She drew her wand, surprised that her own hands were steady.

"Well, you're ready as always, I see no reason to worry," he replied, keeping his hand on his own wand in his robes pocket.

She turned around and kept pace with him, thoughtful. "Think I'll get to break some heads?" she asked with some glee a moment later. "I hope I do. I've heard that werewolves are vicious fighters."

"They haven't wands to defend themselves, I imagine they have to compensate somehow," Amycus said, wishing his sister could do anything quietly.

She frowned at him. "Oh, look at you, all terse. If you like, we can just march silently towards the fate of King and Davis, contemplating a brutal death by the hands of a vicious, child-eating beast," she said.

"Alecto, I don't think that you've ever done anything quiet," he replied as they reached the crest of a hill. Just beyond, there was an old house that seemed abandoned and still -- except for signs of a light in a downstairs room. "Do you suppose that's it?"

"No, I'm sure there's another abandoned house with people hiding in it," she said, deadpan.

"Very funny, let's go," he said, starting down the hill.

Alecto followed, breathless as they approached the house, and she kept an eye out for snipers -- perhaps, she thought, overestimating Fenrir Greyback. But it was best to be prepared. "You knock," she whispered to him.

Not wanting to seem cowardly for delaying, he lifted his hand and rapped smartly on the weathered door without hesitation. Niceties had to be observed while on their Lord's business, after all.

Dinner was a quiet time in the house of Fenrir’s pack, which was why the knock on the door seemed so loud. Fenrir tensed and stared at the door, his face twisting into a nasty, panicked fury as his anger rose and wolf reacted until Laurel touched his arm. He looked to her, into her concerned yet firm gaze, and stood, towering over the other werewolves of the pack.

Fenrir, head of the Pack, walked away from the fire they'd built for warmth in the old fireplace, with Laurel lurking behind, and he opened the door.

Alecto stepped away instantly, staring up at the much taller man and lost for words. "What do you want?" He spat at their feet angrily. "What could witches and wizards want from me now?"

Amycus stopped Alecto from moving further with a hand on her arm. "There's no need to be so belligerent," he said first. "We've been sent here by our Lord to recall you. You made a Vow, and He asks that you begin to fulfill it."

Fenrir sent them a slow and dangerous grin, and Laurel took it as a sign to stand beside him, prepared to do what she had to for her Father. "The vow is gone, made with the dead," he pointed out, sounding very pleased. "Or has your Father forgotten that?"

"No." Alecto spoke clearly, looking into the werewolf’s face, and though he stared back, she was unmoved. "You’re still in our Lord's service. Let's talk about this inside, shall we, it seems you've a nice fire in here."

Satisfied that his sister wasn't going to be running back the way they came, Amycus dropped her arm and looked steadily at Fenrir as well. "It would be to your advantage to allow us to do such -- after all, if you resist and we're right, well. That's that."

"I killed them both," Fenrir shouted as he stepped forward to drive the Death Eaters back. "They’re both dead and I won’t hear about it, do you understand? Now leave and never come back!"

Alecto found herself quivering, rooted to the spot, and only two steps away from the beast; she took them. "Ready to stake your life on that?" she asked wryly, staring up at him, right into his eyes, and recognised something else in his eyes.

Fenrir sensed Laurel tensing beside him, her glaring at the witch, but the wolf approved of the witch's forwardness. He drew back and inside, yanking Laurel behind him roughly by the wrist.

Amycus tried to focus on the situation at hand and not the fact that something very weird just happened, and said, "Ladies first," after managing to get beyond it.

Alecto took a slow breath before walking in, head high. Her nose immediately wrinkled at the smell and sight of the room -- a room that had once been a modest sitting room but now served as a dining room where a good twenty-five or so werewolves sat around the fire and ate what appeared to be barely cooked meat. She stared openly, utterly amusement -- were they really beasts?

"Go on," Fenrir Greyback said, gesturing widely at a cracked china plate where three more pieces of meat sat. "This is my pack, and you're _welcome_."

It was times like this that Amycus honestly questioned his diplomatic abilities, because quite frankly this was just this side of disgusting, but he kept as neutral an expression as possible. "Thank you," he said generically. "Now, as for the matter of your Vow, while I doubt Susanna King is ever going to think of a headache the same way again, you failed in your attempts to kill her."

Alecto looked at the werewolves; more children than she would have expected, even for a werewolf now notorious for biting children. "The Unbreakable Vow stands," she added to her brother's statement, impulsively snatching up a piece of the meat. "And so the deal with which you bought your freedom. As I see it, you have two choices, and you'd better choose wisely."

That was enough, and soon the wolf was snarling and so was Fenrir, who was only kept from leaping up at the pair by the pressure of Laurel's hand on his thigh. He sat straight, but still stared at the witch. "We don't fear death," he said acidly, "your Lord will learn that." He took a rebellious bite of fresh meat, staring at the wizard as he chewed, then commenting. "He better keep his side of the bargain or my pack and all of the rest will turn against him. We don't care much for wizards."

"Our Lord _has_ kept his side of the bargain so far," Amycus reminded him civilly, "and he will continue to do so." The werewolf seemed to forget that he was the only reason the escape had not gone as they'd planned it, and the only reason they were there now.

"So far, and so far all your Father's done is watch as the Ministry sends their wizards after me." Fenrir took a bite and chewed thoughtfully, Laurel taking the moment to add coolly, "Your Lord needs us, but we don't need you."

Alecto flashed a wicked grin at Amycus before taking a bite of the meat as a show of bravado. It was just this shy of raw, it was disgusting, and she choked on it, but she didn't let her discomfort show. "You think you'll last long in an abandoned house where any wandering child could find you, nonetheless Aurors and all the strength of the Ministry?"

Amycus had to stifle his older brother instinct that consisted of Stop Putting That in Your Mouth and instead concentrated on looking like he didn't feel like gagging himself. "It may not seem that way now, but you will find that there will be long term benefits."

Alecto stretched her legs out by the fire, tired of standing. "Such as the protection of all the wands of the Death Eaters in the protection of your Pack. You won't be threatened by a single wizard while in the Dark Lord's service."

Fenrir lost his composure and shoved Laurel aside as he stood to intimidate the insolent girl, and flashed a glare at the wizard. "Protection? Your kind fears mine! Wherever we go we’re driven out, we’re murdered when we act as nature intended, you fear us, you can’t deny it!"

Silence followed, and as if to prove a point, Amycus made no move other than to shift his weight from one foot to the other. "You weren't the easiest... person to find, but you were eventually found. The Ministry, inept as it may be at times, will eventually track either you or one of your Pack back to here."

"I expected better from you," Alecto remarked directly to the oh-so-fearsome Fenrir Greyback, taking a hearty bite of the nearly-raw meat again. The place smelled, the meat tasted like mold, but after all the sorts that she and her brother had persuaded to the Dark Lord's service, wizards and halfbreeds, she could tell who had talents that could be put to use. Fenrir Greyback was an investment worth working on personally. "You're a legendary figure, a Ministry fugitive, eluding the Dark Lord, but at this rate you'll die in the next six months by the hands of the Ministry."

Fenrir tensed to approach the insolent witch, but Laurel turned to Amycus with a rather unbecoming scowl. "Shut her up," she snarled at him, "she's yours to command, so control her. This is the Father of our pack, and he deserves respect!"

No one had been able to control his sister's words or otherwise since she had learned how to walk, and it wasn't going to work now. Amycus did turn to her and, ignoring the nearly raw meat in her hands, said, "Alecto, these are our comrades and we are here on our Lord's business, representing Him. You needn't be so blithe."

Alecto continued to play with it after the idle realization that the meat could easily be Muggle or worse, and managed a straight face for a few moments before outright sniggering at Amycus. "Yes, right, I forgot." She laughed. "We have our Lord's business to achieve. So, Fenrir, will you die or will you serve?"

"We don’t serve wizards," Fenrir snapped off, pulling Laurel aside with the resolve to not heed any more of her nonsense peace measures. This situation needed the strength of a pack leader. "Just like wizards to think that any non-wizard -- "

Alecto shrugged, raising her index finger to reserve his attention. "I serve Him," she said, once she was certain he would stop glowering and start listening. "My brother serves Him. We're from an old family, a pure family, but we serve. There's no shame in serving the man who embodies a Cause, because it's no different than serving that Cause itself."

Amycus very nearly stopped his sister before she even started, being no talent at Divination, but still knowing that naturally she was going to voice what was on her mind, damn the consequences. He opened his mouth to interrupt her -- except the beast seemed to be listening, idly if not attentively. "There is much to gain," he managed to add once his sister completed her thought.

Fenrir silently paced a few steps, scratching at his unshaved chin. The burden of responsibility was never something that he regretted, but it was down to life or death again. And there was no telling what wizards would do to his pack if he crossed them, and was no longer there to protect them. "When you need us, we'll be here, if you can find us so easily again."

Alecto, meanwhile, had tossed the last of her little werewolf snack into her mouth, and swallowed hurriedly to speak as the great orator, Fenrir Greyback, finished his little speech. "You won't be found again if I can help it. I'm staying here," she told Amycus with a confident wink.

Amycus arched an eyebrow when he looked again at his sister, surprised but not showing it. She was capable of taking care of herself, even if these were half-breeds who presented a real danger. Still, the Dark Lord would be getting what they’d been sent to find, and maybe the half-breeds would consider it a gesture of good faith. "Very well," he said nonchalantly.

Alecto genuinely grinned at him and dared look over at the head of the beasts, in the corner. "If you'll have me," she added, as casual as anything. "But whatever the Ministry tracks you with won't be easily broken by any tool you've got. I'll break them all for you, consider it the first favour from our Lord."

Fenrir considered this. "I’ll accept it," he said, "but the Dark Lord should think next time about sending a witch who can keep her mouth shut." His smile was encouraged by Laurel's snigger. "We hope to hear from you, Carrow."

"Amycus," Alecto supplied, and got to her feet. "He's Amycus. I'm Alecto." As though it was completely natural and surprising even herself, she threw her arms around her brother in a hug.

He accepted the gesture -- no, returned it even, if only for the opportunity to whisper covertly in her ear, "You _better_ know what you're doing."

"I'll win them over," she promised, feigning a casual tone but betraying some of her fear. What if she couldn't? Death by the hands of inventive werewolves didn’t exactly top her list. "So. Where am I sleeping?" she asked Laurel, who simply scoffed and brushed past on her way to do _real_ work for the pack.

Fenrir similarly stepped past Alecto, with only a vague curious glance, to stare down Amycus. "You'd best return yourself. I'm slow to trust. Bring only a few others if you must."

"I shall," Amycus promised, tearing his glance off his sister. "Whether another comes will depend on what our Lord believes is required," he added with a smile that could be best described as professional.

Fenrir gave a terse nod and seized Alecto by the arm, yanking her along harshly. She flashed a worried look at Amycus, but eventually returned her attention to Fenrir, who was saying, "We'll see how good you are with that wand before you start using it on my pack."

Every nerve in Amycus's body protested to that treatment, but he reminded himself that Alecto had volunteered to stay. To protest now would be ruinous to what they'd been able to achieve. Instead, he firmly placed his hands in the pockets of his robes and began to back from the room. "I bid you all good night," he told the assembled Pack, leaving the way he and his sister had entered, waiting as long as he could stand to Disapparate.


	6. Strange Bedfellows

_Just as members of a wolf pack are considered their family, so is the entirety considered an extended network of familial connection. Like normal families, some are closer than others; many have their arguments and their problems. But also they have their close ties to one another and for good or for ill, keep watch on one another._ Owen Curenton, _Pack: The Sociology of the Werewolf Pack_ , 1st edition, 1976.

_October 1977_

Alecto Carrow likely wouldn't be described as generous on her best day, but Fenrir Greyback's ragged pack hit upon a rare soft spot in her heart. The pack was hesitant to accept her, no matter how curious, helpful or kind she tried to be, but when she withdrew piles of Galleons from Gringotts to spend on amenities for them, they grudgingly began to tolerate her. They were still wary, but Alecto understood. If Barty Crouch invited her to dinner, she would suspect him as a predator as well. A predator was a predator, even if they seemed passive. In time, though, she knew they would figure it out.

"Bedsheets," Alecto announced, with the sort of merriment reserved for the self-satisfied benefactor. She kicked the door closed behind her, her arms full of bags. "And a few duvets," she conceded to a werewolf who curiously wandered up. She ducked her head into one of the bags. "And some food -- have you ever been to Honeydukes?"

Fenrir was talented at showing up wherever action was brewing, arriving almost as quickly as by Apparation. Now he stood at the top of the stairs and descended towards Alecto with a look that was past his usual stern. "What, no wizards' robes?" he asked, watching her set down the bags.

"You wouldn't wear them," she pointed out. She reached into one of the bags to pull out a folded duvet. "Bloody freezing here, I'm surprised no one's died of cold yet -- " She handed it to Fenrir and continued looking through her bags. "There are about four or five of those, if you like I'll get more...."

Fenrir threw the duvet to the ground. "We never asked you to change how we live," he shouted. "We never asked you to _stay_."

Alecto lifted her head from the bag and decided against offering the werewolves in the vicinity a pack of Drooble's. She spoke mildly and stayed expressionless. "No, but you wanted the Ministry to leave you alone, and haven't they?"

He seized the bag in front of her with a disgusted laugh, and flung the door wide open. With equal force he tossed the various wizarding foods out on the lawn, then turned to the witch, forcing the wolf back though it raged at him. "I'd rather have your brother here, he would know better," he snapped.

She simply looked up at him with blank innocence as she slipped off her cloak. "You know, you're not real wolves, you only get a fur coat once a month. You'll get sick if you don't cover up, Fenrir, love."

Fenrir seized her by the shoulders and threw her into the wall, scattering the werewolves who were gathered to observe yet another of countless clashes between the two. Both the wolf and Fenrir were particularly pleased at the way she winced and rubbed at her head before standing against him, wand raised. "My house, my rules, my Pack. Your Lord may rule us, but he doesn't rule here." Satisfied at what he knew had to be fear in her eyes, he stalked away, kicking the duvet for good measure.

The evening meal was scarce, and Fenrir early on refused to eat any wizarding food, so they were forced to fish, hunt, and scavenge. The result was barely enough to feed the whole Pack, and it seemed that some just _weren't_ fed.

One of Fenrir's personal favourites among the werewolves was beginning to enjoy Alecto's presence, if not company. She capitalized on this boy, Wesley, as a source of information (if not companion). He was generally too nervous and strange to be of much use for anything but babysitting or, contrarily, a fight, as the other werewolves told rumours of his ripping half of an ear off of a werewolf from another pack who offended him. Alecto, for her part, was very glad that this boy liked her.

Alecto pointed at the huddled group of werewolves on the outside of the circle around the firepit. "So, Wesley, why don't you feed everyone the same?"

Wesley chewed and swallowed his fish cautiously, twiddling the bones between his fingers. "Erm, they're bastards. Unnamed," he elaborated.

The fish was stringy. Alecto pulled a face, then gestured for Wesley to continue. "Go on, they don't teach this at Hogwarts or anything."

He frowned at the mention of the school, and wizarding things. "It's our sort of magic. Your Father can choose to name your wolf or not to. If he does, you become... connected. You have status, rank, privilege within your pack. If he chooses not to..." He shrugged. "No status, no connection, no rank. You're a bastard, living on charity."

She nodded and looked over at the bastard wolves. They were leaner, paler, and talked rather animatedly -- but only to each other. Interesting. "Sounds dangerous," she muttered.

"Sorry?" Wesley hesitated in intruding on her private thoughts, and finished off his fish in a few quick, tidy bites.

"Nothing." It was best, she knew, to keep something to herself. If the Death Eaters needed to put these werewolves down like animals, there could be a way. "I -- " She was cut off by a knock on the door, two quick raps. Not Amycus, she just knew.

Fenrir was in her personal space within an instant, furiously whispering with his foul breath on her face. "You led them to us," he growled in accusation, his hand on her throat.

Alecto knew that she couldn't show fear again, or he would think himself dominant forever. "I did not, now I'll go answer the door, if you don't mind." She moved away from his prying hand and stood, feeling his eyes were on her back as she walked away. She briskly approached the door and opened it with a congenial smile. "Hullo!"

The man standing on the stoop was clearly a Ministry paper pusher, a clean-cut, well-dressed professional, if a bit nervous. He eyed her, the wand in her belt, and frowned, apparently confused. "Hello, miss -- I think I must have the wrong house, I'm sorry -- "

Alecto gripped the doorknob white-knuckled to keep her smile. "Not many houses up here, I know, you're probably at the right place? Who are you looking for?"

He hesitated. "New arrivals in town," he said. "Have you seen anything odd recently?"

She feigned confusion. "No... now come in, it's cold out there, Mr...?"

"Pittiman, my name is Elliot Pittiman." He sent her a nervous smile as he stepped inside. "If I could use your Floo, I'll be on my way, miss."

Alecto's smile was genuine as she closed the door and brandished her wand. The tip touched his nose, making him quiver in a rather amusing way. She hid a giggle at his shocked expression, and managed to mock a frown. "Elliot... it's your unlucky day." With a few casual charms, she had his wrists magically bound behind his back. "Fenrir! It's safe."

Fenrir's rage had been building since the witch arrived earlier that morning, and now, he saw, there was a target he was allowed to harm. "What's this?" He eyed the wizard.

"This is Mr Elliot Pittiman." Alecto smoothed the middle-aged wizard's hair, smiling deviously as he stared at Fenrir in shock. "Where are you from, Mr. Pittiman? The Ministry? Couldn't be the Aurors..."

"Greyback," Pittiman pronounced, unable to tear his eyes from the wolf he'd seen at the front of Greyback's eyes only a few months prior. "You -- "

Alecto's wand pressed against his Adam's apple. "Answer my question." Her pleasant voice now had an edge.

"Werewolf Registry," Pittiman said abruptly. "There were werewolves vanishing from our tracking map -- their signatures flickering on and off, at times -- as though someone was trying to break the charms. I had to investigate."

Alecto looked up at Fenrir to gauge his response, and surprisingly his rage was directed at her. "You heard him, you vanished, I could have saved you all if you hadn't been trying to throw me out -- "

"You failed." Fenrir stepped closer to her, to stand over her. "You failed, and now we're discovered -- we're killing him, now."

"No!" Both Pittiman and Alecto spoke at once, though Alecto was the only one to snigger at the unison. She cleared her throat and put her hand on Fenrir's chest. "No. If anyone can break these charms properly, our dear Mr. Pittiman can."

Pittiman blanched at the very idea. "No, no, I won't, I refuse!"

Hearing Fenrir's snarl, Alecto seized the moment and shoved Pittiman into the nearest wall -- the same one she had hit earlier. "Don't be stupid," she whispered with gentle glee, her wand back at his throat. "I won't let you leave this house until you do it."

Women were naturally inferior, and Fenrir had seen enough of a woman considering herself above the Father of a pack -- but her making decisions in his pack house was too much. "CARROW, THIS IS MY PACK," he raged at her. "I make the decisions here!"

Alecto's everlasting patience neared its limits, anger reaching her eyes. "Am I wrong?" she asked softly, raising her wand.

Fenrir looked at the wizard instead, uncomfortable at the conduct of the witch. "Wizard," he began with a wide, wicked smile, "you're now in our service. Or you could die, if you like."

The odd exchange had drawn him in, and Pittiman had to resort to "What?" before the words reached his brain. "Yes -- er -- you can't kill me." It was too confident, he had to restate himself, they were staring at him. "I have -- a family, I have children, I have responsibilities, I'm the only one in the Werewolf Registry who cares about your kind," he tried.

Fenrir's smile only grew wider as Pittiman spoke. "Children," he repeated, and the horror that dawned on Pittiman's face was incredibly satisfying. "Make your decision quick. You release us, you help us, or your children die."

Alecto's shoulders shook with laughter at Fenrir's offer. "Oh, Elliot, please, make the right decision! Think of the _children_!" she cooed at him.

Pittiman breathed slowly, then his head dropped against the wall in surrender. “I will."

Alecto pulled his wand from his belt and stuck it in her own, then releasing him. As he rubbed at his wrists, she pulled up the sleeve of her robes, revealing her Dark Mark to his horrified gaze. "Welcome to the Dark Lord's service, Mr. Pittiman," she said, in her best imitation of a genteel greeting.

The last thing she heard of Pittiman that day was a pitiful sobbing from the closet that served as his cell.

~*~

_December 1977_

Isabelle Davis prided herself on her ability to do what had to be done, or at the very least, pay someone else to do it. Thorfinn Rowle looked half-troll but he was smart enough to charge her extra for her silence. No price was too high. Anything, even losing the chance for another handbag from this season's collection, was worth ridding the Slytherin girls' dormitory of the dreadful, obnoxious cat that Julia Frobisher insisted on letting loose. 

A half hour had passed since Rowle took the cat away, but Isabelle imagined she could already feel the air clearing and hear the lovely silence where the thing wasn't mewing. "I wonder where Frobisher's cat is," she said aloud to her unknowing best mates, smiling at the nail varnish drying on her fingernails.

"Oh who _cares_ , it's not here," Maude Bletchley stated, painting her own nails fastidiously. "That's what matters." 

Sophia Higgs looked up from her _Witch Weekly_. "I haven't seen it all day." Just as well, the furry little thing had decided it wanted to sleep on her _jumper_ , of all places! And Frobisher had the nerve to tell her to get over it.

Isabelle blew on her fingernails, rolling onto her back and considering the varnish in another light. "Maybe it ran off. Can you imagine, the poor thing? We only have to live with her during the school year and it has to live with her _all the time_."

Giggles ensued from both girls. "Maybe she sent it off to live with her other animal. You know. _The werewolf_ ," Maude said in an exaggerated stage whisper.

Isabelle giggled and looked between her two friends. "If he wouldn't _eat_ it," she pointed out and pulled a face.

"Ew!" Maude squealed in return and they giggled. 

There was the slightest hesitation before Sophia asked, "They don't _really_ , do they?" She wouldn't have put it past them, but that was disgusting.

"Oh, civilised society's never bothered to study savages like werewolves," Isabelle dismissed. "Who knows what they're up to?"

"Oh. Right," Sophia said, shrinking slightly and ignoring Maude's look that plainly said _What is_ wrong _with you?"_

"It probably depends on how hungry one is," Maude said out loud, very prim. "Or just on the instinct!"

"Oh, Frobisher must be so at home with creatures lacking any self-control. I don't think I'll _ever_ get the filth off of my cheek from that time she _hit_ me." Isabelle pressed a hand to her cheek, playing the tortured victim.

"That was so unbearably uncot of her," Sophia agreed immediately.

" _Uncouth_ ," Maude corrected. "And mannish."

"Well, she can marry a dog for all I care, at least we know she'll never make it into civilised society," Isabelle said flippantly.

"If she married _him_ , she would be." Sophia laughed. 

"They can't be married, it's illegal, why don't you know anything?" Maude demanded. 

"I know lots of things!" Sophia exclaimed, offended.

"Oh, stop fighting, girls, they're not worth it." Isabelle yawned. "There are more important things to talk about. Like Alexandre and how he's going to propose to me when I'm out of Hogwarts. Everyone says so."

"Of course he is!" Maude agreed, as Sophia sulked in silence. "How could he _not_? It would be so wonderful! Would you live _there_?"

"Oh, I don't know." Isabelle tossed her hair. "I think I'd rather like to. We'll leave it up to him, of course, and my father."

"Of course," she said quickly. 

"Where does he live over there, anyway? Paris has the most spectacular shopping," Sophia nodded knowledgeably.

"Touraine," Isabelle said proudly. "They have this beautiful châteaux, and his mother just dresses so fashionably _all the time_ , his father is such a gentleman... I would just _love_ to live there!"

"Ooh," Sophia said with the appropriate amount of reverence. "Beautiful."

The door swung open quite suddenly and Julia stumbled in, carrying a bookbag heavy with schoolwork and her Quidditch guards that needed a good cleaning, her hair still wet from the shower she'd taken after practise. She threw her bag and guards on her bed, and frowned. Odysseus usually slept on one corner of the bed, would be disturbed by her tossing things on the mattress, and give her a low _mrow_ and a dirty look at his sleep being interrupted. As usual, she ignored her roommates and doubted they were going to return the favour.

"Speaking of beauty, here comes the opposite," Isabelle announced with a flourish and a wicked grin.

The two other girls giggled and Julia merely dumped her books out of her bag, preparing to take what she needed to the library. "D'you suppose she even washed it?" Maude asked, motioning at her own hair.

"Do you think she knows how?" Isabelle giggled.

"You three should really find a new hobby," Julia said darkly, shoving her Charms book into her bag.

Isabelle rolled onto her stomach, sending a sugary smile at their out-of-place roommate. "You just make it so _easy_ , Julia!"

She would have really liked to have thrown a book at her. It would have just been far too easy. "What, not bored?" 

"With you always giving us new material with your behaviour? Never!" Maude said.

"We were just talking about how you sent your cat off to stay with your other animal, the werewolf," Isabelle said smoothly. "And how he's probably eating it."

Julia threw her book on the mattress, met with a chorus of "ooh!" and giggles from Sophia and Maude. She was used to being talked about and giggled at and could more or less let it all roll off her, but she despised it when they talked about Jeremy. "I could hit you again. Like that, would you?" she challenged. 

"And then we'll tell Professor Slughorn and you'll be in _trouble_ ," Sophia told her.

"We were just concerned about your cat," Isabelle said, fluttering her eyelashes innocently. "We haven't seen him _all day_."

"Sure you are," she said, beginning to feel uneasy about this. "Well I haven't seen him either and I didn't send him anywhere." 

"Oh, you're sure?" Maude blinked innocently, although she had as much of an idea of where he was as Julia did. 

"Of course I'm sure."

"Odd," Isabelle said with a shrug. "Maybe it ran away. Again, who could blame it?" She hid a far too satisfied smirk into her duvet.

Every instinct Julia had said not to trust them a bit, they were being... well, very pleased with themselves. "What did you _do_?" she demanded harshly. 

"We didn't do anything!" Maude protested honestly.

"You're a little paranoid, aren't you? You should look into that," Isabelle advised, not revealing a hint of guilt.

It wasn't paranoia if they were really out to get you, she reasoned. And Isabelle and her hags were definitely out to get her. "What did you do?" she repeated.

"We didn't do anything." It wasn't a lie; after all, it was Isabelle's plan, and the other two were completely innocent. "Just because your animals don't like you doesn't mean you should take it out on us."

"I don't believe you," she said flatly.

"Denial," Isabelle sighed to her two friends. "It's pathetic, isn't it?"

"You shouldn't project your failure on us." Maude nodded in agreement. Sophia just giggled.

Julia looked between the three of them, and turned and left the room to enlist Gilly's help in searching the school grounds for her cat. She slammed the door behind her, eliciting more giggles from her roommates.

~*~

_January 1978_

Conor sat on the floor of the master bedroom of his pack's house, his back against the wall, prepared to be on an equal plane with the three people he trusted most in the world. In his past, before being bit, he had a knack for understanding connections and what was happening, with who, and where. Now, with the packs, there was an answer for each of those, but few answers to the countless "whys." Why were the packs restless? Because Fenrir's pack was stirring up trouble. How? With the arrival of a witch. Why? Conor didn't know. He needed to know.

Luckily, unlike most pack leaders, he felt comfortable reaching out for help or new ideas. And with a witch, a female named and an heir, he could expect a variety of answers. 

Jane lightly touched her fingertips to the wall as she moved down the hallway. She tried not to worry about the meeting called -- if it were something to worry about, the entire pack would be meeting together, surely -- but general worry was easier than trying to tease out the specifics. She pushed the door open and saw at least that Geoffrey and Briony weren't there yet. "Hi," she told Conor.

He looked up to see his niece at the door, and sent her a grim, thin smile. "Hi. Have you seen the others? I understand Geoffrey and Patrick left the house for some time earlier, I was wondering if they'd returned."

"Yeah," she said, coming in and closing the door behind her. "I mean, I didn't talk to Geoff since then but I heard them come in. Haven't seen Bri."

Conor frowned but examined the worn tips of his shoes instead of allowing himself to worry. Briony was nothing if not entirely reliable. "No rush. We have at least a year before we should be concerned," he said, wry.

She knew better than to ask concerned about what, at least until Geoffrey and Briony managed to arrive. "Well. I'm sure it won't be that long," she said pragmatically instead, taking a seat on the floor as well. 

He considered her, grateful more than he could say for Jane and the wand sticking out of her pocket. "Anything to tell me, before this becomes official?"

Jane tipped her head and looked at him. "Like what?"

"You're a witch. You're... pack, but you see things the rest of us don't. I know you, Jane." Conor looked directly at her.

There were days when Jane was uncertain of whether being a witch and not a werewolf was an asset to the pack or put her even more on the outside -- but Conor was right. Lack of a wolf might have left her without the multidimensionality of communication that was important in the pack, but it also offered her a certain amount of clarity. "Geoffrey's sharing his bed with Melinda."

It surprised him, though that sort of relationship wasn't uncommon among a Father and his pack, but he'd always seen Geoffrey's relationship with his ranked nameds as similar to his own relationship with Briony. It was certainly surprising and not wholly welcome news. "Ah." He failed to hide his displeasure. "Well, no harm as long as things don't go sour, I suppose."

She shrugged one shoulder. "They weren't exactly advertising it or anything."

He couldn't help his curiosity, and never had been able to. "How did you find out?"

"She leaves the room in the morning before people wake up. I'm up. I see things," she quoted him in conclusion. 

He grinned at her. "Some days, I don't know what I'd do without you, Jane."

"Spend your days in woeful ignorance of what goes on around here, undoubtedly."

The door opened and Geoffrey looked inside, awaiting a nod from Conor before he entered the room and took a seat on the floor away from Jane. "Hello," he said, nodding to them both.

"Hi," Jane echoed, clamming up and doing her best to look like they hadn't just been talking about him. How awkward.

"Have you seen Briony?" Conor asked him, offering nothing else in greeting. 

"She was right behind me," Geoffrey answered, ever the obedient heir. "At least, I thought so, I think she meant to talk to Melinda."

There was a conversation Jane was sorry she was missing. She wondered if Briony knew about Geoffrey and Melinda, too. Probably, she decided. "Then she's probably not far behind."

Conor reached out with his wolf to sense Briony, couldn't find her, and took the moment to reach out to Geoffrey, who reacted in kind, though his heir's wolf revealed fear. "Hm," he said. "It's just a simple conversation, Geoffrey, you know Briony. She gets to the point quickly. Do you have anything to tell me?"

Geoffrey didn’t miss the tone in his father’s voice. "It's entirely within my rights and I don't think I should be judged on it, Conor." He sent Jane a significant look. "Every leader has his favourites." 

Jane raised an eyebrow back, cool as she could manage. She wasn't going to apologise for anything. "Nothing to hide amongst family, right?"

Geoffrey practically leapt to the defensive, tensing, all frustration and resentment. "I didn't _hide_ anything. Melinda was ashamed and thought that Conor might think badly of it, but I knew my Father to be a more reasonable man than that, and I'm right, aren't I?"

"Geoffrey." Conor spoke evenly, his voice lowered. "Calm yourself. Control yourself. The full moon isn't far, and you can't afford another transformation like the last." He watched his son thumb the start of a scar gained in a skirmish still in recent memory, when Conor had control and Geoffrey did not. "Be the man I trust you are and I'll respect this decision. I only need you to control yourself."

Geoffrey spoke formally, stilted, not trusting himself with anything further. "Yes, Father." Despite his holding back, his wolf extended deference to its father, which was accepted. He exhaled in relief and said, "I hope that wasn't the purpose of his meeting."

Conor shook his head and glanced up at the door as his wolf felt Briony nearby. "No," he said, and waited.

Only seconds later, and Briony pushed the door open, immediately seeing the three of them waiting for her. "Not late am I?" she asked casually, taking a seat closer to Geoffrey than to Jane.

"No, we're all early," Geoffrey said with a touch of sarcasm, catching Briony's eye and touching her wolf with his to temper the remark. "Hello."

"Where were you?" Conor asked just as casually, merely watching and listening and feeling the two of them to see if there was once again anything he was not being told.

"Just stopped to talk with Melinda," she said, keeping open to Conor. She didn't feel as though there were anything to not be open about; she nudged Geoffrey's wolf playfully in return of the sentiment.

Geoffrey couldn't get too resentful, as his wolf was in far too good a mood at the arrival of its sister to allow him to. "You know as well then," he said to Briony.

"You both have glass faces, all anyone had to do was put two and two together, Geoff."

Geoffrey accepted that with a muffled grunt, but still smiled, only growing more serious when he looked to Conor, who watched him in particular. "Why are we here, Conor? I think it's safe to say we're all concerned at your... you're more thoughtful," he said. "You seem worried. It's not like you."

"Yeah," Briony agreed softly, calming herself and growing ready to listen. Jane said nothing, but also settled herself, resting her chin on her knees and growing attentive.

Conor stayed silently reflective as he thought how to best put it into words so they could really understand the situation. "The Greyback pack is returning to its root ideal," he said. "The belief that Greyback held for so many years, only in theory. An idea of werewolf supremacy that leads to the natural conclusion of the Unified Pack."

Briony considered her Father for a short moment after and was the first to speak. "They are talking about it again, or they are seeking to act on it?" she asked, making the careful distinction between the two.

"That's the question, isn't it." Conor allowed his concern to show and released some of his iron-clad control, since if anyone could read him, it was these three. "They haven't said a word about it to the packs, but they've started to act more aggressively and ... they have a witch living with them now. A witch whose purposes don't exactly seem... beneficial to the pack itself."

Briony quickly glanced at Jane, who pretended not to see it, and most pointedly did not look at Geoffrey. "So she's... just there? Is she a wand or just... " She hesitated. Conor obviously didn't have any answers for her growing number of questions, there was no point to asking.

Conor hesitated, too, in going, because he had done enough speculation for a lifetime while working for _The Daily Prophet_ , and now it just felt dishonest and wizardly to do so when it came to issues affecting his pack. But at this point, he was almost certain. "I believe she's one of You-Know-Who's lot."

"Unsurprising," Geoffrey said acidly; he’d never cared much for the Greyback pack’s particular brand of madness. "Unsurprisingly hypocritical. Why do we tolerate them?"

"Because as long as they're not bothering us, why does it matter?" Jane observed rhetorically.

"I doubt _us_ tolerating _them_ is the way Fenrir would see things." Briony glanced to her brother. Her time in the Greyback pack with Conor was many years ago when she was much younger, but there were some things you just didn't forget -- and she doubted that Geoffrey would have forgotten either.

Geoffrey caught Briony's eye but shook his head. "Which came first, the hope for a unified pack or the Death Eaters' involvement? Did Fenrir reach out to the Death Eaters for help, or are the Death Eaters using him and he's taking advantage of their wands to advance the unified pack? That is, if he's actually going to act on it." The very idea of his pack losing its identity made the wolf cringe and react, but he merely released a slow breath to calm it.

"The Death Eaters freed Fenrir from the Ministry." Conor's answer was terse. Fenrir had once been a friend, of sorts, a friend he would have trusted with his life. Now he likely couldn't even trust Fenrir not to get himself killed. "The Death Eaters must be using him. He wouldn't tolerate a witch unless he had to. He might be a hypocrite, as are we all, but this is too far. He would never go this far."

"The latter, then," Briony murmured. She wasn't sure which idea was more repellent to her, the unified pack or witches and wizards (any witches and wizards) using werewolves. Even if that wolf was Fenrir Greyback.

"So," Jane finished, looking around their circle. The question seemed to be hanging over them, someone had to ask. "What are we going to do about it?"

"What authority do we have over Fenrir, besides having common sense?" Geoffrey spoke up immediately. "Technically he has authority over _us_ if anything, we're in no position to demand anything."

"... Apologies, what I meant was that I somehow doubted any of us would be content to sit on our hands when there a present possible threat to the pack," she clarified.

"All we can do is be as good a friend to the Greyback pack as we always have been." Conor tilted his gaze to the floor, disturbed at the quick and fatalist conclusions drawn already. "All we can do is our best to make certain that those ideas fade or fail. We must talk to Fenrir. We must go to him, and try to stop what could possibly be war."

"So... you're going," Briony said, undeniably displeased, and already thinking about the ways in which this could work out, many of them unpleasant.

Conor exhaled, stood, and after a moment of surveying his three, held his hand out to Briony. "No. We're going."

As unhappy as she'd just been, she was more surprised that they would be going. "Just us?" she asked.

"When?" Jane broke in, the more important question.

Conor straightened, thinking quickly and answering just as fast. "As soon as possible. This isn't something we can delay on, the Death Eaters have managed to persuade other races to their side and they won't hesitate to flatter Fenrir's ego, then use him to control the rest of us. We may have a war on our hands sooner than later if we let the witch poison his mind."

Geoffrey stared up at his Father, his wolf aching and whining at the idea of the absence of its Father, at its Father taking such a risk. "You're going to walk into what might be enemy territory? You have to take me, Conor, it would be a much better show of authority, we must show ourselves as a traditional pack, one that can be trusted."

"It's also more aggressive," Briony told him. She touched his wolf, with a light, only slightly guilty touch. They were as close as any brother and sister tended to be, not without their rivalry. She was the first, without doubt or reservation, but he was the heir. That, and now she _really_ wanted to go.

"Yes," Conor said in affirmation, touching his son's forehead in a gesture of rare affection. "I might as well walk right through his door and declare war if I arrive there with my heir -- my headstrong, perhaps too pragmatic heir, at that. Briony and I will go to Fenrir and do our best to turn his mind towards reason. You and Jane will handle the pack, as I know you're more than capable."

Geoffrey controlled his resentment; good pack leaders didn't hold petty grudges and inevitably lose control at the next full moon. "Of course."

Jane nodded slowly at everything, taking it all in. She didn't want to show her nerves on staying with Geoffrey. There wasn't a doubt that he would follow Conor's orders, but as he had said, Geoffrey was headstrong and very pragmatic. "You really are needed here," she said finally.

Conor nodded at that, satisfied at a shift towards thoughtfulness in Geoffrey's mood. "We'll leave tomorrow after breakfast, and discuss it with the pack then. Get some sleep, Briony. We'll have a long journey ahead of us. That's all, unless any of you have other concerns to bring to me."

Briony looked at Jane and back to Geoffrey. "No," she said, voicing the sense of finality.

Conor looked at the other two, finding only assent, and so concluded the meeting. "Good," he said, and stepped around the circle to leave them alone in the room.

They were silent until the door closed behind him. "You guys can't kill each other while we're gone. Seriously," Briony added, only about half joking.

"I promise nothing," Geoffrey clearly joked, and sighed after a moment, not much feeling like the heir to the pack.

"It'd be a close one," Jane added in a similar tone, but it was also clear that the weight of the new situation was pulling their levity down like lead.

"I have to go." Geoffrey both spoke and stood abruptly, only leaving once he caught Jane's eye and touched his wolf to Briony's for one last time, all worry, pride, and hope that everything would go well, before he left.

Briony held on to the connection as long as she could, even after he'd left the room and closed the door, leaving the two girls together. She already missed him. She looked back to Jane, who stared back in silence, a true indication of how little she actually had to say to her on a normal basis. "He's going to count on both of you to keep things running smoothly here," she said.

"I know it," Jane said. "He's going to count on you to not lose your head and watch his back."

Such was their truce, a slightly awkward arrangement wherein they said nothing and everything all at once. "I've never not," she replied, lifting herself from the floor and leaving the witch to her business.

~*~

_February 1978_

Valentine's Day was turning out pretty groovy, if Sirius Black did say so himself. Love was in the air, and it was so disgusting at some turns it was hilarious. James spent all day sneaking kisses out of Lily (even in the middle of class), and she turned the colour of a tomato every single time. Remus's mum sent them an enormous care package filled with sweets of all shapes, colours, and flavours. Sirius himself, of course, had received a host of valentines, some from girls he wasn't even sure he could put a face to. Even Peter had gotten a sweet card with a bad quatrain from a little firstie who, strangely, hadn't shown her face at the Gryffindor table since breakfast.

Lily sat across from him at the dinner table, reading her Charms text since James had yet to show up for dinner after Quidditch practice. Sirius considered giving her flack, but nothing had really come to mind so he was satisfied to jump between teasing Peter and Remus. All in all, a normal dinner for their group.

"She meant well," Peter protested finally in response to the teasing. "She's -- _nice_!"

"Yeah, but she's twelve," James said, as he took his seat next to Lily again. He kissed her cheek and transfigured her spoon into a rose, which he offered to her.

Lily took the rose and sighed. "Thank you," she said. "It's a lot less useful than my spoon in eating my soup, though."

"At least he's getting a girl," Sirius cracked. "In ten years the six year age difference is going to be hardly anything!"

"I think it's sweet," Lily replied, letting James lean in closer to her. "She doesn't mean any harm -- "

James looked up from another attempt at wooing Lily into a public display of affection to speak up. "Even if she does, he's likely to enjoy it -- we see how you look at McGonagall, mate, no denying it!"

"Oh Merlin, James," Peter said, looking a bit green.

"Ew, did we really have to bring McGonagall into this?" Sirius pulled a face and made a show of falling over onto the table. "I mean. _Really_ , Prongs?"

"Consider it payback for everything you say about my mother," Remus spoke up, taking a bite of shepherd's pie.

"Think she got our Valentine, Padfoot?" James asked, offhand.

Remus choked, and Sirius lifted his head. "Well, she didn't send the knickers we requested, so I have to wonder," he said.

"You two are disgusting," Lily informed them both, eyeing Remus with concern.

"Well, the poetry we sent her wasn't quite up to snuff with little Liza Abercrombie's, but I thought it was pretty impressive," Sirius said with an exaggerated sigh.

Peter looked up from his food. "So that's what you were working on, I knew that you couldn't be laughing that hard at Charms homework!"

"I can't rhyme in my Charms homework, either. Flitwick might get suspicious."

"Oh, come on," Remus said. "If you guys keep that up, then I'm not sharing any more of the care package."

"Ah, Moony, why do you think you got a care package at all?" James winked.

"Uh. She's _my_ mother?"

"If that helps you sleep at night," Sirius said loftily. "It helps me!"

"Don't worry, Lily, you're the only one who helps me sleep at night," James mentioned.

Peter made a face, and fished some sweets from his pocket.

"Well, I wasn't worried," she said, somewhat amusedly. "I think I could take Mrs Lupin if I had to," she added seriously.

"I don't know, my mum is a pretty tough lady," Remus said in a similar tone.

"Yeah, but our Lily's a fighter," James said, putting his arm around her.

"Yeah, she's a real champion," Sirius replied drolly.

Lily said nothing to Sirius, merely picked up her roll, contemplated it, and chucked it at him, hitting him in the eye.

James nearly choked on his gulp of water and started to laugh very hard.

"Lily, one, Sirius, _zero_ ," Peter said seriously.

"That's usually how it goes," Remus said. 

"One day," Sirius put in, picking the roll up out of his lap and tearing it in half. " _One day_ I am going to make up all those points, and then my friends you will be sorry."

"Not as sorry as you'll be when she gets you back, double or nothing," James returned. He Summoned half of the roll over to him and tossed it into the air, catching it in his mouth.

"I was going to eat that," Sirius informed him.

James Summoned the other half. "What're you going to do about it?"

Sirius Summoned them back and stuffed them into his mouth. " _That_ ," he said through the bread in his mouth.

Remus couldn't help but stare. "That," he said to Lily beside him, "is a terrifying sight."

James's mouth hung open, just as it was when Sirius had Summoned chewed bread right out of it. "You just -- " He laughed hard enough to start going red.

"Is it any wonder you haven't managed to charm the knickers off of Mary, yet?" Lily asked rhetorically, trying her hardest not to appear disgusted and failing miserably.

"That is assuming she's wearing any," Sirius replied easily.

"Do you just... keep a list of ways you're going to be gross?" she added.

"No, that's his natural charm," James said helpfully, the colour starting to fade from his face.

"... And thus, much is explained." Remus contemplated it.

"Everything you ever wanted or needed to know about Sirius Black, am I right?" Sirius asked.

"Not really." Lily shook her head.

"After seven years there's very little we _don't_ know. Besides why you'd want to eat food I'd already chewed," James added. "Then again, we are talking about food from my mouth, so who could blame you. Careful, Wormtail, Liza Abercrombie might try for that Chocolate Frog!"

Peter swallowed quickly, and wiped the chocolate from his mouth. "What?"

"Chew with your mouth closed is what we're saying," Sirius explained.

" _You're_ the one who took food from James's mouth." Lily raised an eyebrow. "So, really..."

"You lose all right to talk about etiquette after you literally steal food from someone else's mouth, mate," James informed Sirius.

"You stole my food. It was a matter of pride," he said.

"Oh yeah? Glad you have your pride, it only took sharing saliva with me to regain."

"Lily shares your saliva and she has to touch you to do it."

James could not possibly take mention of snogging Lily Evans as an insult. "And she's the luckiest girl in Hogwarts for it," he said, and stole another kiss from Lily.

Unfortunately this happened whilst Lily had a mouthful of carrots, and somehow she managed to swallow and kiss James at the same time without choking to death - almost. "Do you think you can check to see if I'm actually _eating_ next time?" she asked, coughing.

"Slughorn isn't kidding, you _are_ talented," James said, smirking. "I wonder what else you could do -- "

"Finish that sentence and you are not getting your present," Lily cut him off calmly.

"Thank _god_ ," Sirius said with a face.

"Finished!" James put his hands up.

"Good boy," Lily said, patting him on the cheek.

"Sit, stay," Peter quipped.

"No point in asking him to speak, I suppose?" Remus said.

"He does that without being ordered," Peter returned.

"I guess 'roll over' isn't something we'd necessarily want to hear, either..."

Lily sighed. "How did we pick this up again?"

"James was amazed at your _talent_ ," Sirius said with a rather smug, obnoxious grin.

James grinned back, just as smug. "You don't know what you're missing."

"She didn't say 'speak,'" Peter pointed out dryly.

Sirius roared with laughter, and Remus and Lily had to smile. "I didn't, did I?" Lily smirked at James. "Shh. Be quiet," she further teased.

"Make me," James teased back.

She made a face. "Present," she reminded him.

"You're a gift enough, you know."

Peter snorted loudly enough to catch the attention of the rest of Gryffindor.

Sirius laughed again, but addressed James and Lily. "Save it, get a room if you have to," he said.

"Oh come on, today I have an excuse to flirt with her in public," James protested, though he grinned.

"James," Remus started pragmatically, "when have you ever needed an excuse?"

"He's right, you know," Sirius agreed.

James shrugged, shameless. "I don't, but at least I have one this time. That helps, right?"

"Not really," Lily replied, taking the last few bites of her dinner quickly. "Okay. Present! Back to Gryffindor," she cried, jumping up and taking James's hand, beginning to drag him behind her. 

He gave the boys a victorious thumbs up before laughing and following after.

"Three Galleons says he's getting laid," Sirius said, once they were out of earshot.

" _Sirius_ ," Remus chided.

Peter shrugged. "I'll take that bet."

Remus rolled his eyes, but didn't really have the heart to chastise them further. It was, after all, Valentine's Day.

~*~

_March 1978_

Rufus Scrimgeour tried to scour the image of Alastor Moody's smug bastard face from his mind as he left the Auror office to find Frank Longbottom and deliver the handwritten note to Frank Longbottom himself.

_Told you it'd come down to the best, Scrimgeour._ Moody really was a bastard. The Longbottoms were kids, not out of school for more than five years, he thought offhand, and in the Auror office for less than three years besides. Certainly they had made an impressive showing during training and even with the cases they'd been handed so far, but there was something to be said for experience, the sort gained only through a number of years as an Auror.

Nevertheless, the note, scribbled and folded in a manner that suggested less than formal resignation, was not for him. Understandable, as Fenrir Greyback and this whole debacle was his failure, at least in part. The Auror office rarely gave second chances.

"Longbottom!" Scrimgeour barked, at a loss for finding either of the married couple's cubicles.

_Which one?_ was always the quick, wry reply to that cry, but something about this made Frank sit up and take notice. He slid back from his cubicle and looked, seeing Rufus Scrimgeour at the end of the aisle, fit to be tied. "Sir?" he said.

Scrimgeour nodded, not about to waste any time. "Where's your better half, Longbottom?" he asked, with a valiant attempt not to be terse.

"She, ah. Took her lunch early I think, but otherwise she'd be in her cube -- just around the corner," he said as he motioned. He was babbling. "What is it?"

He held out the note. "For you, from the head of the office," he said. "Consider it an honour."

Frank took the parchment and opened it. As he read it his eyebrows raised. The King case was theirs. The most high profile case the Department had to offer -- and the most difficult. Susanna King had given the phrase 'hostile witness' a whole new meaning as Auror after Auror was handed the case, hoped to break her and make her talk, and inevitably wound up disappointed. For a moment, he was speechless. "I... understand," he finally said, slowly.

"Moody vouched for the two of you," Scrimgeour felt it necessary to mention. "You'd best deliver."

So no pressure, then. He exhaled. "I'll examine the file and we'll get on it." Not that bits and parts of the case file hadn't circulated the office by mouth.

"She's waiting," the older Auror said simply, and gave him a curt nod and added, "Best of luck," before he went back to his own desk.

In minutes, Frank had acquired Susanna King's case file, although it took the better part of half an hour to make his way through it. When he approached the interrogation room where she was being kept, he became jumpy. He felt like he should be knocking, which was completely ridiculous. Instead, he pushed the door open and walked into the room, regarding the prisoner for a moment from his side of the table.

Susanna looked up at him with curiosity. "Ah, I recognise you, I think. I used to work here, you know. Go on, sit, dear."

Yes, she most certainly had. He remained standing for the moment at least; sitting would lead her to think that she had the power in the room. Instead, he smiled in a way that must have been ever so slightly condescending, which would have annoyed him if he were her. "You've been causing quite an uproar in the Department," he said.

She feigned surprise. "Have I? It's just that I haven't had a moment to think since I was locked away and I've so many things to think about -- as you well may expect. I'm in a very messy situation. What's your name?"

"Very messy," Frank agreed, although he ignored her question about his name. "You have some very interesting connections, Miss King -- it is Miss, not Mrs, correct?"

"Do I?" She leaned back in her chair with a casual elegance as though in rich dress robes, and tucked her hair back fastidiously. "It is Miss King, yes. I put my life into this Department rather than into a marriage. Are you married, young man?"

So detective work wasn't really her strong point; his ring was on the appropriate finger, in plain sight. Either that, or she was trying to divert him. He would have put a great deal of money on the latter. "Found with a deceased Bradley Davis and Fenrir Greyback gone? I would call that an odd connection."

"You're not answering any of my questions," Susanna complained, tilting her head back and giving a luxurious yawn. "If I didn't answer these questions from all of those other men, I'm not going to answer yours, so you shouldn't waste your time. Or are you looking for a feather for your cap, dear? Ambition is a fine trait."

"There's no room in this department for personal ambition," Frank said firmly. Not if they wanted it to work the way that it should, there wasn't. "We're a force. Aurors can't be a force if we're all out there trying to make ourselves look good."

Susanna looked at him with a bemused expression before outright laughing at him. "Oh, yes," she giggled. "Tell that to the Aurors who came in here all ready to bring me to the Wizengamot in chains, declaring me a Death Eater and friend of werewolves!"

"Yes, I wonder where we'd get an idea like that," he replied dryly. "All the same, I don't suppose anyone else had bothered to mention the possibility of a sort of... compromise."

She looked intrigued. "You'll give me a deal," she translated. "What makes you think I have any information that will be of use to you?"

"Well, until you relinquish such information, I don't," he admitted. "But we are currently seeking one important bit of information and you seem to be the only one who can give us an answer." He was toeing a line. He wasn't really certain that this was information they were looking for or not, but this was something that had occurred to Frank when he was otherwise perusing the casefile. And it was certainly a lot more subtle than threats of declamation in front of the Wizengamot. "With you, and apparently Mr Davis, the Death Eaters of You-Know-Who are connected to the werewolves. But why."

A sigh escaped her and she straightened. "'Why?' Do you expect me to answer that?" She gave him a sideways glance, drumming her fingers just a bit nervously. "First time anyone's bothered to ask, though."

Frank somehow found it hard to believe that he was the only one so far to insinuate a connection. But then again, anything was possible. "If you cooperate with the investigation, I can -- well, I would find it impossible to believe that you could walk, but there's always lighter sentencing, which is better than nothing."

"Oh yes, only a few years in Azkaban, a much lighter fate." Susanna closed her eyes and relaxed her posture a little. "You're a nice boy, your wife is lucky. What is it you want to know?"

Finally, somewhere. He took a seat for the first time in the empty chair provided. "Why is You-Know-Who interested in the werewolves? And why does he need Fenrir Greyback?"

Susanna gave every indication of the exhausted inmate finally relinquishing the story. "I'm surprised you have to ask. That's always been the main failing of the Aurors, always presuming the answers are more complicated than they are. Both your answers are the same."

At that moment, Frank wasn't very interested in her criticisms of the Aurors, but talking was better than not. "All right, so the answers are the same. What is the answer, then?"

Susanna examined him with a bemused stare. "You don't know much about werewolves, do you, boy? Ought to fix that."

_I should say not_ nearly left his mouth, but instead he leaned forward onto the table, his expression unreadable. "Consider this a teaching opportunity, Miss King."

She spoke steadily, with little inflection. "There is every indication that Bradley Davis and I released the werewolf Fenrir Greyback from his cell for the Dark Lord's cause. I fear and love the Dark Lord, but I fear him for good reason, but I have equally good reason to fear the Ministry's wrath due to our unleashing the horror of Greyback and his bloodlust. No matter what I tell you, I'll be punished. If you deduce some of the more incriminating parts yourself, I may be more willing to answer questions. Or can you Aurors accomplish that much?" She smiled at the end of her statement, sitting back.

Okay, so she was good. He could see how she'd stood under the pressure of interrogation, and even sent one away crying. He began combing and wracking his brain for what he knew. "Werewolves are... considered Dark Creatures, and... well, if You-Know-Who has the giants and uses them for his purposes, I suppose the werewolves would be the natural progression. But to what specific end?"

Susanna's eyebrows shot up and a smile spread across her face before she burst into a bout of laughter. "Go learn something, I'm a Death Eater, not a professor," she said with an air of generosity. "It'll get you out of this office, after all, and you can get some air."

And Frank was an Auror, not a trainee to be condescended to. He absolutely forbid his cheeks to flush in anger, but felt them do it anyway. Traitorous of them. Every bit as stubborn as she, he was not ready to give up yet. Werewolves, who knew about werewolves? A small community of intellectuals and activists who did things like incite riots and...

... write books. Which people occasionally read.

It occurred to him who he needed, who should be in here with him anyway. Alice should be back from her lunch by now. With renewed energy, Frank stood up and pushed his chair back in to the table. "Don't go anywhere," he told Susanna dryly, knowing perfectly well that she was bound to her chair and not going anywhere until the charm was released.

He moved down the hallway at a considerable pace, scanning carefully for Alice. He didn't see her immediately, but found her in her cubicle, bent over a parchment and filling in blanks with her typical meticulous care. "Alice, are you busy at the moment?" Yes, without so much as a hi or hello, but this was important business.

Alice smiled down at her work at the sound of his voice, almost pleased at the interruption from the bureaucratic drudgery. "Hello to you, too, love. I'm working," she answered ambiguously. "What do you need?"

He smiled back at her briefly. "Sorry, I'm just in the middle of... I need you and your brain, if that can wait for a bit."

"My brain's yours for the use, what's happening?" She frowned, then gave him a calculating look. "Nothing too foreboding, I hope."

Dear Merlin, he almost couldn't say it, because this was a colleague but also his _wife_ , and it would be no trouble to even go to the head of the department and say it. But they could get this. His gut told him that they could. "Scrimgeour handed us King, and she and I have come to a bit of an impasse," he said. "There's the connection with You-Know-Who and the werewolves, it's all there, it just -- it needs to be done with someone who understands it better than I do."

She had to smile at that, because if anyone knew how stubborn Frank was, it was certainly Alice (and his mother, but she tried not to think of her mother-in-law very much). "Just give me a moment." She took up the quill and hurriedly finished her form, transforming it into a memo and sending it off, only then standing to give her husband a quick kiss. "I'll get her to talk, don't worry."

"We're in room four," he said with a smile, motioning for her to follow as he filled her in on anything that mightn't have gotten to her through the rumour mill. Like the deal. "She's rather uncooperative. I offered her a deal to answer questions, but so far all she's done is try to get me to fill in the blanks."

"She worked here," Alice reminded him gently. "She worked here and no one knew that she was even working against us. She can't have a very high opinion of the Aurors." She winked at him and opened the door. "But if anyone can outsmart her, we can."

Frank really didn't want to appear conceited, but he nodded his agreement. As far as he knew a pair hadn't been sent in, and two just might have been needed. He followed her in and closed the door behind the two of them.

Susanna gave the girl a scrutinising look, and hid her surprise as she immediately approached and sat across from her. "Never bring a man to do a woman's job, is that it?" she asked Frank, not even regarding the girl.

"Consider it a consultation," he said. "Now, where we last left off, you were quizzing me on werewolves and why You-Know-Who could possibly want Fenrir Greyback and would spring him from jail. This is just someone who happens to know a little bit more than I do in this particular area. Your prisoner," he finished to Alice.

Alice nodded, then looked at the Death Eater, ignoring her confidence. "I'm going to ask you questions and you're going to answer truthfully." She spoke harshly, not going to be judged as a _woman_ Auror here. "Anything else and we withdraw any possible deal."

Susanna looked as though she was resisting the urge to laugh at Alice, too. "Understood."

Alice strained to remember everything she'd read about werewolves in her final year at Hogwarts. She was by no means a radical who championed their rights, nor a bigot who tried to show off their failings, but Alice had a weakness for lost causes. "Fenrir Greyback is the head of a pack, yes?"

Packs. Packs meant numbers, and numbers meant shoring up an army. Nothing new there. Frank waited for Susanna to answer, their deal was slowly but surely getting ready to be taken off the table. "Answer."

Susanna rolled her eyes and leaned forward. "Don't you dare push me or I won't say a word," she snapped. "I'll confess to murdering Bradley myself and you'll never know any of the reasons because they'll see me dead."

It was ridiculous to give her the upper hand, but he reminded himself that something could be better than nothing, and now Alice was here. "It was a simple question, simple answer," he said calmly. "I apologise, continue."

The shift in conversation left Alice suddenly nervous, but she took a deep breath, completely focused when she turned back at Susanna. "He is the head of his pack and you need his pack," she concluded. "Why do you need his pack in particular? There are plenty of non-jailed werewolf pack leaders go to after, right?"

"I thought you brought me a scholar." Susanna sent a light smile in Frank's direction, enjoying Alice's frustration. "He was convenient," she added facetiously. "We just had a few questions to ask a werewolf and decided to let him loose, on a lark. Good man. Has a taste for Mudbloods and Muggles."

"... Intimidation and terror, of _course_ , why else," Frank murmured. It was almost too simple to be believed. "And if you can embarrass the MLE and get what you need, that's two birds with one stone."

"No!" The word was out of Alice's mouth before she could think twice, and she flushed both in anger and embarrassment as the older witch began to laugh at her. "No, it can't be that simple."

"It's never that simple," Frank agreed. He circled the table, now behind Susanna, just beginning to be irked by this interrogation. "What's our missing second bird, Miss King? We need answers, not cryptic diatribe."

Susanna's nerves, too, were starting to fray. "Funny, we're talking about what you want, when I'm the only one with the answers here," she shot back.

Something clicked in Alice's head and she sat forward, leaning on her elbows, speaking each question that came to mind. "What is it? Did he agree to work with you? Would none of the others work with you, did you try? Is there something special about Greyback?"

Frank could almost see the switch being thrown in Alice's brain and listened to every question carefully, trying to build and fill in the blanks in his own head. She'd said the answer to why Fenrir Greyback had been the same as why werewolves. Of course, she could have been lying, but he didn't think so. Since it would only give her a reason to complain of diversion, he remained silent.

Susanna looked caged, but only for a moment."You must agree to let me free, and I will tell you everything I know about Fenrir Greyback and his likely whereabouts. This has to be secret. There are more Death Eaters in this Department who will be more than eager to kill me if they know that I've spoken."

If this didn't work out without kinks, trouble, or general bad things, there could be trouble. For him, and Alice, now too, protocol being what it was. But still. "The Department can protect you," he said carefully. "Secretly, all that... few people involved as possible, of course."

"If you don't, I'll have this wife of yours dead within the year." Susanna sat up straight, shoulders even, expression cold. "I have my ways, Frank Longbottom."

He immediately decided if he ever met her in the field, he _would_ kill her. "You are the one facing time in Azkaban, here," he told her coldly. "Threaten us again and the deal is off the table."

Susanna looked at Alice as she explained flatly. "Fenrir Greyback is known to support a unified pack of the entire race of werewolves. It was like a gift fell into our laps. We had him cornered and could convince him to our cause, or he would most certainly be condemned to die."

"How?" Frank asked. It was like turning on a light to walk through a room instead of carefully feeling your way through; illuminating. He looked at Alice to see what this could mean to her.

The Curenton book talked about this, a whole chapter at least seemed to focus on executions or the Dementor's Kiss, and Alice strained to remember it all. "Werewolves don't even like to talk to wizards because they expect everything to be misconstrued into a threat," she began slowly. "A unified pack supporter would hate wizards even more. So getting him to trust you would be a first priority."

Susanna couldn't resist a wide smile at that. "Trust, you say? Who trusts the Dark Lord, except for his servants? No, halfbreeds and their supporters know better than to leap into the jaws of the fox, so to speak."

"So if there wasn't trust, then there was something else." Frank spoke more out loud to himself than either of them at the moment. Pieces were starting to fall into place. "An exchange. Quid pro quo."

"You offered a deal, just like we're offering you," Alice realised, feeling less triumphant than frightened. You-Know-Who had extended a deal to that _werewolf_ and he'd likely taken it... "Freedom, but at what cost? Information? Servitude?" She felt herself beginning to pale.

"You're nearly there." Susanna drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, saying nothing more.

The room was quiet while Frank and Alice both thought. "Freedom for Greyback, servitude to them," Frank murmured, "it wasn't information, they wouldn't need him out for that..."

Susanna spoke softly, urgently, in forced calm. "We needed two. To truly bind him to the Dark Lord, we needed one to bind him and one to bond them."

Bam, there it was. ".... You're talking Unbreakable Vow," Frank said slowly.

She nodded slowly, and hesitated before going on. "Bradley," she began. "He killed Bradley, I don't think he knew the real rules of the Vow, because he ought to have killed me." She gave a bitter snort. "Disgusting creature. They'll have sent Death Eaters after him, to secure his services," she added.

"What were the terms?" Alice twisted her wedding ring and tried not to focus on the idea of an Unbreakable Vow. "You were bound to him, but what terms did you give?"

Susanna laughed unhappily at that. "You expect me to tell you _that_ , after all I've already told? Just outright tell you? It doesn't matter, at any rate; even if you kill me and break the Vow, he's probably kneeling at the feet of our Lord already."

"If You-Know-Who needs his leadership for the werewolves and needs him bound to service, why would they have an interest in killing you?" Frank asked curiously.

Susanna was surprised he even had to ask. "Traitors deserve death."

It occurred to Frank that this wasn't a matter of cutting your losses and doing something like that would be a setback rather than a step forward. But it was hardly here or there at the moment. "Very well. Unbreakable Vow, then." He looked at Alice.

Ensnared in her thoughts, Alice stared at the edge of the table until she could bring herself to stand. "Yes. We'll see you soon, Miss King, but for now we have to see if we can make you a deal," she said. "Thank you for being so cooperative."

He let Alice make a move to leave the room first, picking up the casefile where he'd dropped it on the table. "Someone will come to remove you to your cell shortly," he told her, "Thank you for your cooperation."

Susanna merely sneered at his back as he shut the door. She'd made the right choice - it wasn't cowardly but it wasn't pretty either. Still, she would handle the results.

Alice leaned against the wall, eyes closing, as the door shut. "Frank, love, we... we have to tell Dumbledore," she urged. "This is ... we have to look into all of this, every bit of it, the Werewolf Registry..."

Frank ran a hand over his face and gave a tired sighing. "He does need to know," he agreed. "There's no telling how far up or out this has gone. He'll know what to make of this all." He looked at her for the first time, her distress rising to the surface. "You did brilliantly in there, love."

"Oh -- it was nothing, I irritated her more than anything else, you saw," Alice protested. She allowed herself to stop twisting her wedding ring out of nerves and reach for his hand.

He squeezed her hand tightly. "You were. Never would have pieced it together without you."

She smiled genuinely, and touched his face with her other hand. "Now go on and brag to the boys that you broke Miss King in interrogation," she teased.

Frank thought that using 'broke' would be a loose interpretation of events, although she had talked, and they had something that they could use. "Prestige and information for Dumbledore. It has been an eventful day."

Alice stood on tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. "We'll celebrate when we find the time," she said, ironically - free time barely existed on an Auror's schedule, especially those involved with the Order of the Phoenix. "And I suppose my desk is piled to the ceiling after all this time's passed."

"I'll see you at home, then," he said, giving her a quirky smile. "But first I'm going to brag and talk to higher ups. Not at the same time and not necessarily in that order."

"Sounds fun." She returned the smile. "I'll see you tonight, then, love you." After a last kiss, she shot a dirty look at a fellow Auror who whistled, and bustled off.

Frank's cheeks flushed, and he said to the Auror, "Nothing to look at here. Work to do," he said, following Alice's path to the end of the hall, and right to the office of the head of the Aurors.


	7. Undertow

_The investigation into Fenrir Greyback’s escape from MLE is ongoing, but closely, even jealously guarded by the Longbottoms. The young, crack pair of Aurors have been publicly commended for their competent handling of what was becoming an impossible cold case, though much of their headway has been kept quiet. No small feat, considering the very public and very contentious nature of events that have lead to the case._ Trenton Williamson, “Fugitive Fenrir: No News is No News,” _The Daily Prophet_ , 29 May 1978. 

_May 1978_

The main thing that Briony had noticed about the Greyback pack was how ineffably rigid it was. Packs contained a certain rigidness, but if there was such a thing as a textbook example of a pack, Fenrir's was such a one. That much hadn’t changed in the years since she lived with Conor before their pack’s split with the Greyback pack, when Fenrir's Father Greyback was pack leader. It struck her how easy it was to fall back into the pattern of obedient pack female, letting Conor do all the talking unless she was spoken to, like she was supposed to, contenting herself to look around and observe. The shift was jarring and uncomfortable.

She sat casually as she could in the main room doing what she did best, more observation. Hours ago, Conor disappeared into one of the upper rooms with Fenrir, and she tried not to appear nervous about it, though it had been quiet since. She watched a group that she learned was unnameds where they sat in a corner not so far off, talking quietly with one another. Briony regarded them with tempered interest, and their wolves held back, at a respectful distance from a guest of the pack. Some things did not change, it seemed. 

She turned back around, so as not to stare, and found Wesley looked right back at her. She jumped and tried to slow her quickening pulse. "You again," she said carefully.

Wesley gave a nervous smile and stuck his hands into his pockets. "Me again," he replied, stepping back to give her personal space. "Just making sure you have everything you need. Checking on you."

"Hospitable of you," she said. It was difficult to not appear nervous when she was alone, and the problem was only exacerbated when speaking to Wesley. "But I'm fine, thank you."

"Well, we don't want anyone to be... uncomfortable. And since, you know, our Fathers have been talking practically since you lot got here, well, not much for any of us to do, really." He lingered without words for a moment, and was about to speak again when someone else spoke up.

"Skip the niceties, Wesley. They don't trust you, girl." Alecto walked in briskly, and kissed Wesley on the cheek, patting him on the other before she turned to Briony. "I don't blame them. It's suspicious that you come and stay here right when Fenrir's Pack begins to grow in strength. Is it jealousy, or conspiracy?"

Briony narrowed her eyes slightly. She knew that this was the witch that had made herself comfortable with Fenrir's pack, but they hadn't spoken. That was probably for the best -- what Briony saw of her she was a typical witch, which annoyed her. She ignored Alecto and spoke directly to Wesley instead, emboldened by the witch's presence. "Conor isn't interested in any trouble. We're just looking out for interests of the packs, is all."

"My Father has no interest in any trouble either, for your pack or any others," Wesley agreed without hesitation, sending a worried look to Alecto. "Under Greyback we were very close packs -- "

"Oh, were you, and here I was thinking Conor was a bastard," Alecto said with mild surprise.

"Conor is deserving of the same respect that you give to Fenrir," Briony snapped at Alecto. "We're our own pack, and we have been for many years."

Alecto gave her a bemused look, touched Wesley's shoulder and inquired, "What's this I heard about a unified pack, then?"

"It's one of our pack's founding ideals." Wesley chose not to elaborate much more on that. "Conor has proven himself a worthy pack leader in recent years, our Father Greyback, God rest his soul, gave him permission to leave. Our connection remains, though -- "

Alecto cleared her throat. "I thought bastards have no connections?"

"A metaphorical one," Wesley said abruptly, now looking nothing less than uncomfortable.

Briony chortled openly. The witch wasn't showing herself to be particularly knowledgeable, and she was unimpressed. "There's still a line of descent. There's no denying that Conor was an unnamed of the Greyback pack, but we built our own." She wasn't even touching unified pack.

Alecto stared at the ragged girl. There were more similarities than she would admit, as she grew as thin as the werewolves with the scarcity and danger of going into town for wizarding food. Even so, she was still a witch, and had no fear stepping closer to Briony. "Are you laughing at me, girl?"

Wesley pushed Alecto back with more force than either expected, looked away from the flash of rage in her face, and released her. He turned to Briony. "Just make yourself at home. Conor's pack is a trustworthy one, we know that."

"I was," Briony replied blithely to Alecto, though she knew she probably shouldn't have. Though she was a witch, Alecto was Fenrir's guest the same as she and Conor were. She turned to Wesley instead. "It's all pack, I don't know how you can expect a witch to understand it."

"Apparently I can't understand. If Conor's a bastard, why isn't the pack equally bastard?" Alecto wondered aloud, pacing around to the other side of the annoying bitch of a werewolf. "Why would you give power to someone who wasn't made to wield it? I thought a Father rules with his connection to his pack members -- his _named_ pack members."

"That's... not the way the system works, Alecto. A bastard can name, but it's a rare occasion that one gets to break away from a pack. Conor merely proved himself worthy," Wesley explained to her in a strained whisper, gaining a disconcerted look as she just grinned at his frustration. "Each pack is accepted with its own Father, and if he can build a pack as an unnamed, all the more impressive -- "

"Conor _has_ named pack members," Briony retorted. "And so on."

"Well, I don't think I'm alone in wondering why you and Conor are here, no matter what the status of your pack is," Alecto said, with her best haughty look. "Quite a time to drop in, just as Fenrir's pack makes its own plans."

_Plans that could destroy us._ Luckily, she managed to shut her mouth before that thought left it. "Unfortunately, that's only Fenrir and Conor's business until Fenrir decides to make it yours," she answered.

The knowing expression dropped from Alecto's face as she eyed Briony and thought quickly, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Fenrir's business is my business, as I'm here to lend the Dark Lord's support to him," she said, condescending. "My Father wants the best for your kind and so do I. Of course, since we carry wands, you won't have it, will you?"

Briony was floored. "Your _Father?_ " She'd never heard such a gross misuse of the term.

Alecto's hand automatically went to her wand, but she thought twice. "We're not so different," she began casually. "We're both women and will likely gain nothing for our labour, we both have unwavering loyalty nonetheless, and we both... well, carry our scars." She yanked up her sleeve and bared the Dark Mark. "It may mean nothing to you but this Mark, this means everything to me. I serve, as do you. And now we're in the service of your kind, can't you appreciate that?"

Briony looked at the snake and skull that adorned the older woman's arm. She had an inkling of what it was, what it meant -- but she hadn't been able to make herself be overly concerned. "You're right. It doesn't mean anything to me."

Colour rushed to Alecto's face and she opened her mouth to speak, but soon enough Fenrir and Conor were descending the stairs. Fenrir stopped, halting Conor as they happened upon the scene. "Carrow, put that thing away," Fenrir ordered in the briskest, most offhand tone he could allow. "It's impressive but Briony's scars are just as impressive, so I've heard."

With her Father in the room, Briony lit up and grew more confident. She tried to decipher the look on his face, but it was a puzzle. She pulled at their tie in gentle questioning, and mostly for something to say said, "Scars don't mean much."

Conor drew away from Fenrir to greet Briony with an affectionate, fatherly kiss on the cheek and a nudge of their wolves. "Scars," he said, "are paraded by the proud, hidden by the ashamed, and ignored by the humble, and from what I can see the Death Eaters' main fault is pride." He was certain to speak so the others could hear. "But we're not immune to that ourselves, always. I can't say I'm surprised to see you here, Miss Carrow."

So this was Conor. Alecto looked Fenrir's way automatically until she recalled that she was here on the Dark Lord's terms. He was _not_ her Father, no matter how much he hoped. "Pretty words," she shot back, her most dangerous smile on. "I don't think my Lord would be very pleased to hear them either way."

"Your Father would undoubtedly disagree, if he gives his followers Marks like that," Briony put in.

Alecto stepped forward but Fenrir gestured at Wesley, who had her restrained within a split second. "Let me _go_ \-- "

Fenrir shot her a dark look, which was returned in more than kind, but he ignored that. "No petty fistfights in my house, Conor and his first are welcome here as are their opinions, so long as there's no _interference._ "

"Don't be naive, Fenrir, this wasn't a friendly visit from a family member." Alecto forced Wesley to release her with a glare and muttered curse, ignoring how quickly and painfully he'd subdued her. "They’re trying to end your rise to power before it starts, and -- "

"No," Conor said simply, speaking over the babbling witch. "No interference at all."

Fenrir clapped Conor on the shoulder, all brotherly. "We agree on the important things, and... if things go as planned, our packs will be as close as they once were. There _are_ plans," he mentioned.

Briony wasn't convinced she liked the sound of that. She made herself play the paragon of obedient pack female and deferred nervously to Conor. "Plans," he repeated, neutrally, and touched his wolf to Briony’s in an attempt to calm her. _Wait._ "What sort of plans, Fenrir, I don’t believe we discussed any particulars – "

"We agreed that a pack should stay unified – that remaining a Father to your pack and keeping them safe in a pack environment is the main duty of a pack leader. All that." Fenrir waved it off, as they’d conceded those points long ago. "So, I need some help in unifying my pack, and your Briony’s a clever one, I know."

"Wouldn’t be too sure of that," Alecto muttered to Wesley, who pretended not to hear.

Briony _knew_ that she didn’t like the sound of that. Even though Conor was urging her to have patience, she remained apprehensive and actually looked up to him. "Guess so," she said cautiously. "And?"

Fenrir put one hand on her shoulder and the other on Conor’s as he explained, very casual. "Owen Curenton still has his son, and he thinks he understands pack and werewolves. As Jeremy Curenton’s Father, I have to bring him into pack to teach him what it really is to be a werewolf. As a werewolf and as a member of the Greyback pack, he doesn't deserve to be out there being corrupted by wizards, no matter how good they claim their motives are."

"The Curentons claim they’re doing you good, but they only make you look pathetic and helpless, by showing the werewolves that _are_ pathetic and helpless. Criminal, it’s no wonder that wizards look down on you if that’s the best help you’ve got. You’re lucky we’re here to help," Alecto finished, matter-of-fact.

Conor’s eyebrows raised, but he said nothing on that. "So you want us to fetch your Curenton for you, since you failed to keep him yourself? Can I consider this a favour? "

Fenrir shrugged that off, unwilling to recognise the weakness Conor prodded at. "Send for someone else if you're concerned about her. And go on, consider it a favour, but don't be stingy, brother." He grinned at the last word.

Conor couldn't send for anyone; he had been too cautious, and now Briony was bound to danger no matter which way he went. To send for someone would tell Geoffrey and Jane to prepare for a war that was probably deserved and inevitable, but possible to avert. To go himself would leave Briony in the hands of these madpeople. To send her into Fenrir's plan was a guarantee of danger, but at least she wouldn't be in Fenrir's hands. "We'll be even if you send someone along with her. Who could you send..." He looked to Alecto after a moment. "Yes, no one knows you have a witch, do they? And she's from a fine family, she'll know how to speak well."

Alecto didn't like this werewolf at all. Insolent, pithy, and too smart for anyone’s good. "I would be glad to," she said curtly. "I don't see why I would be necessary unless you don't trust this little girl of yours."

“I’m not a little girl” almost left her mouth, but Briony stopped it, realising exactly how it sounded. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll go if Conor sends me.”

Alecto made a face at Briony and crossed her arms over her chest, thinking hard. "Why not just kill Curenton?" she asked Fenrir directly. "No one likes his sort much anyway, and I can throw in a Dark Mark so that it's not blamed on the lot of you, naturally... it’s not as though they’re actual purebloods, after all."

"Don’t mind our witch -- all she knows are curses and hexes, nothing of pack." Fenrir took obvious pleasure in the nasty response and the flash of rage in Alecto’s face. "No, we have to make him ours, and soon." He glanced at Alecto, but she didn't meet his eyes for a moment before turning heel and storming out the door. "Witches," he said to the others in exasperated explanation.

“Witches indeed,” Briony muttered, trying not to take pleasure in the witch’s dramatic exit. It didn’t exactly make her feel secure about leaving the pack and going to be with wizards – not that she would have been comfortable with it, anyway.

Fenrir gave Conor a brotherly slap on the shoulder and looked after Alecto, who was probably far gone. Now he needed her, though, so he'd have to find her. "Soon," he said to Briony, "you'll leave here and go to Owen Curenton's Den. You'll find it... comfortable." He sneered. "Conor, prepare her."

Conor barely held his patience, as no one spoke to his Briony like that. "I'll prepare my first, you prepare your witch," he nearly snapped. "We both have things to attend to. Briony, come along." He strode upstairs to the room that had been reserved for them without further comment to their host.

Briony followed close behind her Father, grateful for a reason to leave. “I don’t trust her at all,” she told Conor flatly, once they were in the room alone.

Conor sank into a chair, only then allowing his exhaustion to settle in. "Good." He managed a wry smile just for her, though a day of petting Fenrir’s ego had been draining. "I trust you can do this on your own, Briony. We just need to get the witch away from this pack. She's turning Fenrir's head."

She returned the smile, but it was strained. She touched her wolf to his, a better expression of her thoughts anyway. “Good. She shouldn’t be here, anyhow. I don’t know what she thinks she’s playing at.”

He tapped his foot on the wooden floor in an even rhythm. "It’s strange, like I said. Fenrir was never the sort to allow wizards or witches anywhere near his pack unless necessary, but now he welcomes one. And the Death Eaters..." He raised his head to look at her. "Observe everything you can. When you return, we have no option but to lay down an ultimatum – the witch and the Death Eaters go, or we declare war."

The only road left open, if they wanted a hope of preserving what they had. “I will,” she said, still not liking the prospect of the witch, and the need to watch her back constantly.

Conor looked at her, his expression softening just momentarily. He rose from his seat and went to her again, kissing her on the top of the head. "If you get the chance," he murmured, "kill or reveal the witch for what she is. You might save us all."

Scars she had, but from fights, and she’d never killed anyone. Revelation would be easier, she was already trying to formulate a plan and getting ahead of herself. “Okay,” she agreed, straightening her back.

“Okay,” he said, and smoothed her hair. “We can bring an end to this, you and me and our pack. We have everything we need. Just come through this in one piece.”

“I’ll try,” she said dryly.

“You will,” Conor said firmly, his actions affectionate but his expression set, determined. “I’m sure of it.”

~*~

Compared to most of her companions, Death Eaters or not, Alecto Carrow tended to be in control, prepared, on top of the world, but now she was fuming and angry. It was Fenrir's fault, she swore to herself, sinking against the façade of the pack house. Fenrir was impatient and nasty and she'd been spending too much time here, with these beasts. Only logical, after all, that you could catch a beastly temperament off of a beast.

Pain rose in her chest and pricked at her eyes, a scream on the tip of her tongue and tears starting. This wasn't like her at all, to be provoked to anger, nonetheless rage and tears. She choked out self-aimed laughter and stared at her worn shoes. No one was going to look for her, especially here. She had other places to be. Home, or Diagon, or just _London._ She could go see Amycus, but he would be insufferable and tell her that she ought to have expected this, and probably mock her for thinking so much of the werewolves in the first place. 

"Bastard," she muttered into her hands, and wiped at her eyes. As she drew her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on her knees, only then did the one observing her speak. 

"I'm starting to think you're _trying_ to embarrass my pack, Carrow." 

Her head shot up, and she stared at Fenrir with entirely genuine malice; she gave her face a last swipe just in case as she got to her feet. "Don't you dare speak to me like that, Fenrir. Without me, you would have been caught _months_ ago -- " 

Fenrir descended the stairs to speak to her face to face, not at all intimidated at her childish anger and tears."Go on. Think whatever makes you think we need you." He stepped into her personal space, staring down at her from their clear difference in height. "If you think we need you." 

Alecto gave him a vicious shove, and took a step back, directly into the house. She felt herself shaking; the worse the anger, the angrier she grew that she _was_ getting angry. By God, she was wretched. "You say the word and I'll leave!" She drew her wand and advanced on him, making him step back. "All this time and you let me stay here, I didn't have to, I have a home, a life, a family, I had a job, but I sacrificed all for your Pack and look at the improvements…" Her voice faded as she saw Fenrir's glare sharpen, the wolf's presence more obvious than ever. "Deny it! Try to deny that!" 

It was a rare occasion -- he was losing control, and the wolf drew his eye to her, her one bared shoulder and the vicious look in her face. Enough was enough, and he had denied himself enough, not about her effect on the pack but her effect on him. Fenrir roughly seized her and shoved her against the house, pressed her to the façade, allowing a moment for her to struggle before kissing her. 

It should have been foul and disgusting to be kissed by a halfbreed but all Alecto could think was a delirious _finally,_ her hands on his rough stubbled face and into his unkempt hair. His hands pulled her closer and she opened her mouth to him, desperate to keep it going at almost any cost. If she released this opportunity, the next time could no longer be a mistake, which this clearly was, no matter how weak she felt in his arms. 

Fenrir tore himself away, suddenly several steps away from her, wearing a completely astonished look. The wolf was now controlled, settled. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, silent for a long moment before he spoke in measured words. "Why are you here?" he asked, tone deliberately cutting. "What were your Lord's orders?" 

Alecto had to swallow hard in order to speak, sticking her hands in her robes' pockets. She was no romantic, especially not in this situation, but this wasn't what she would have hoped for after a kiss like that. "We were supposed to secure your loyalty and services, and give you His orders when we received them. Those were my Lord's orders to me and my brother." 

Sanitised, but honest words. Finally he'd broken through her quick wit, but it didn't seem so much a triumph now. "So this is how you, how did you put it, secure my loyalty? Didn't take you for that type." 

She looked at him with an eyebrow cocked, and strode up to him, in his face. "You kissed me," she retorted. "You forced me down and kissed me. I have nothing to do with… however you satisfy your beastly hunger, Fenrir, whether it's the meat of a child or, well, me. And whatever it takes to show you that we want the best for you, I'll do it." 

Fenrir seized her by the hair and kissed her, releasing her only when her hands on him provoked the wolf at one of the few basic instincts it knew on its own. "Go upstairs," he forced out. "Or never come back, do you understand?" He shoved her away and stalked into the house, not looking back. 

Alecto sank to the ground, pressing a shaky hand to her chest. Her head and body ached at his treatment, but all she could do was pick up her wand where it lay orphaned by the first kiss and make a quick decision. 

Within a minute she was up the stairs and throwing the door of Fenrir's personal room open, pressing herself against the wall and breathing deeply in hopes of gaining some self-control back. By the time she gained control of her breathing, he was closing the door. Swallowing again, she raised her wand and locked it behind him. _Once,_ she promised herself. _Just once and it's a mistake. Amycus won't ever have to know._

"Call me Alecto," she whispered impulsively as he slipped off her now too-large robes. He only grinned in answer.

~*~

It was a rare day that Twiddle actually left the Ministry for business. Normally he left the Ministry at the end of the day, went home, and poured himself a glass of scotch. He might see his girls – on appointed days when his ex-wife would let him, anyway. But today he had an appointment to speak with Damocles Belby, Britain’s best Healer for treating lycanthropy, and by all accounts a brilliant potions enthusiast.

Belby was also the longtime friend of the self-appointed rock in the Ministry’s shoe, Owen Curenton, but Twiddle supposed that everyone had their faults.

Twiddle sat in Healer Belby’s office waiting for him, and glanced around. Bookshelves lined the walls (which he probably should have expected) and a small cauldron simmered on one corner of his desk (which he definitely had not). He shifted in the chair uncomfortably while he just waited.

Damocles was a busy person, by choice rather than circumstance. That normally came with being married to your work, but there was no doubt that the choice was, at times, inconvenient. He hurried into his office and dropped his clipboard on his desk before looking up at Twiddle. “Hello.” He extended a hand. “I’m Damocles Belby.”

“I know,” Twiddle said, shaking it. “Maldwyn Twiddle, from the Werewolf Registry.”

“Ah.” Damocles wasn’t quite sure what Owen had to complain about -- Twiddle just looked like an innocuous bureaucrat with a stain on his tie. Then again, that was likely Owen’s problem. “I didn’t know that you would be coming yourself, I just presumed – “

“Unforeseen circumstances being what they are, I had to come myself,” he interrupted. ‘Unforeseen circumstances’ in this case meant his one office worker quit yesterday and left, leaving no one to keep the appointment but himself.

“I see.” He found himself taken aback by the lack of social graces Twiddle was displaying, not that Damocles was a stranger to sticking his foot in his mouth. He finally took a seat at his desk and looked back at him. “So. How can I help you, Mr. Twiddle?”

Twiddle shifted again. This was why he went into Magical Creatures, not being particularly comfortable with _people_ per se. “Well, Healer Belby, I’ll try and give you the short version,” he stalled. “In light of recent… werewolf-related tragedies, the higher-ups in the Ministry and in development here at the hospital want to look at the possibility of creating a potion that might prevent such a thing from happening again.”

“You mean the fact that Fenrir Greyback purposely targeted the Curentons?” he asked flatly.

He waved his hand in return, dismissing it. “No one really believes that, Healer Belby. Werewolves are not in their right mind during the full moon.”

Owen really believed it. Damocles knew that Owen really believed it with both his heart and mind and, based on what he knew, the evidence was overwhelming. “Of course,” he said dryly instead.

“Anyway, considering the tragedy,” Twiddle continued as though they were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather, “they were looking into the possibility that some kind of… medication could dull some of the less pleasant side effects of the werewolf transformation.”

“Such as,” Damocles prompted.

“Such as losing their minds which results in biting or death if they manage to escape. Werewolves hunt humans, Healer Belby.”

Damocles bit his tongue. He’d read Owen’s book and was more willing to trust his friend’s opinion on the matter and the words of werewolves themselves than those who, he doubted, had bothered to look at them. A werewolf out of control was, ironically, a wolf in _full_ control – the human was lost entirely – the implications of which he wasn’t quite sure of yet. He held the question in his mind, already thinking it over. “So – I have to ask, exactly how much of this purported medication is based off research already conducted on the physiology of a werewolf?”

Twiddle stared at him blankly for a moment. “I can’t precisely say. If you’re talking about your friend Owen Curenton’s work, I… am not even sure they’ve bothered to look.”

“Of course not,” he said, but thought about it. It was the wolf who took over, and according to Owen, only when there had been an imbalance, an internal struggle between man and wolf. What they spoke of could, theoretically, weaken the wolf around the full moon and give the human the upper hand. Just a thought. He shook his head to clear it. “What sort of backing – “

“Full, complete backing,” Twiddle answered immediately. That should have been enough for anyone to agree. “The Ministry is behind this and so’s hospital administration. They’re allowing you to hire a team, and – look, they want something to show people. If you can make this happen there’s probably nothing that you couldn’t get. They don’t want another Erin Curenton, right?”

It wasn’t Erin that came to Damocles’s mind immediately, however, but Jeremy. He loved the boy as he might his own – if he had a son. He’d Healed him for transformation related injuries many times in the last year, once even mending a broken arm. He could only imagine how difficult it was for him from month to month. He knew Owen if perhaps not Jeremy himself might be offended by the implications of the word, but for lack of a better one, Damocles hated to see his godson suffer. The pain left after a bad full moon was certainly one sort of suffering or another.

If he could prevent that for the people who needed it – why shouldn’t he? Healers healed.

Twiddle wasn’t sure what Damocles Belby was thinking about, but he had a faraway look in his eye that was peculiar to people who did a lot of thinking, or had time to space out for no particular reason. He knew _that_ look very well. He cleared his throat. “Healer Belby?”

Damocles was snapped out of his thought process. “Yes, right. Of course,” he said, and was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, what?”

Genius was scatterbrained. It figured. “I’m sure that you must have a busy schedule, and I… must return to the Ministry.” To sit at his desk and clock the minutes until someone walked in looking for a job or he went home, one of the two. “I don’t mean to press, but do you have a response I can give them?”

“Right,” he said. “I… will have to consider it.”

Whatever. He could work with that. “As you will,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I suppose I don’t need to add that this is a somewhat limited offer. You were the first choice, but understandably they want this underway…”

Damocles would consider and reconsider it, but there was already a corner of his brain that was being cleared away and reserved for figuring out the mechanics of this challenge. “Of course. Thank you, Mr. Twiddle.”

“Sure.” Twiddle stood from the chair and checked once more around the office. “Goodbye, Healer Belby,” he finally said, simply.

“Goodbye,” he replied, and immediately began searching for his copy of Owen’s book.

~*~

Frank liked things to run smoothly. As Head Boy, that had been his main concern, that things in the student body ran smoothly as possible, and that had carried over into everything he did in Magical Law Enforcement. As it was, Susanna King made things not run smooth. They’d received the investigation after he and Alice had made headway in the interrogation, but Susanna had gone back to being tighter than a clam with all of her knowledge, leaving Frank and Alice to chase every lead and avenue that sprang to mind.

It was, in one word, annoying.

As it was, the Department's best interests were coming to a standstill. They met with dead end after dead end, and Susanna King was sitting in the interrogation room again, waiting for him and Alice. They went over what they needed before going in, and then Frank exhaled and looked up at Alice across the table. "Think that's everything?" he asked.

Alice released a sharp breath, ignoring her exhaustion to once again run the list of priorities through her head. "...Yes. That's everything. We're prepared." She cast an uncharacteristically dark look in the direction of the interrogation room. "That _woman._ This case. Even the Werewolf Registry's been duped, how is that possible?"

"Something very big and very bad at work," he answered with a bit of black humour. With another tired sigh, he pushed his chair back and stood. "With any luck this won't take long and we can go home and sleep." Because sleep was, honest to god, about the only thing on his mind for after this got done.

"Sleep," she said in weary agreement, and dragged herself out of the chair to follow him to the interrogation room. Alice straightened and opened the door to slip inside, sending a bright smile to the convict bound across the table. "Hello, Miss King, a pleasure to see you again. We have a few more questions for you."

"I hope they aren't the same you keep asking." Susanna gave a delicate yawn and fiddled with the scraps that were left of her fingernails. "Because this game is growing more tiresome each day, Mrs Longbottom."

"A bit different," Frank said. He did not have the words to describe how tired he was of her utterly bored tone. Without a thought, he pulled out one of the two chairs across from Susanna for Alice before sitting himself. "We want to know a bit more about the Unbreakable Vow you and Mr. Davis made with Greyback."

"The Vow? Perhaps my memory fails me but the Aurors do learn about that sort of thing, don't they? Or what do you spend those three years learning... more advanced trip hexes?" Susanna wondered. "Or these interesting interrogation techniques I keep experiencing -- "

"That's enough." Alice cut her off automatically, already too used to the woman's pokes and prods to get their tempers riled. "You agreed to help us and that is certainly no help. Now we would like to know what the terms of the Vow were, the ones that would lead to his death if he would break them."

Susanna looked interested now. "Do you intend to make him break it? ... Well, no, you couldn't, you don't know where he is, forgive me. That and your sort are for the most part too honourable to kill, aren't you? Whether it's a direct murder or not."

The debate on whether or not Aurors should be allowed to use Unforgivables in apprehending Death Eaters was one that continually raged around them, and Frank found it difficult to believe that as an erstwhile member of the Department, that she didn't know at least something about that. It left a bad taste in his mouth, either way. "Knowing the terms could give us a better idea of what You-Know-Who wishes to achieve in employing such a... man and his methods."

"I'm shocked you haven't concluded that much already," was all Susanna said with some satisfaction as she sat back uncomfortably in the wooden chair.

Alice's face grew ruddy with annoyance as the woman lounged back, and she snapped off, "The terms, Miss King. You named them, you know them. You placed the wording. We would like to know what it was. So don't be shy, go on, tell us. Unless you're afraid."

"The fact that your specific terms have been left unsaid leaves many of our questions unanswered, and in the event that we do find the out, the wording can be important. Semantics, unfortunately, seem to be everything," Frank put in, a tad more wearily than he'd meant.

"It doesn't matter if I tell you." Susanna's voice went flat, tone muted. "It doesn't matter if I lie or tell the truth, because no matter what happens or what you try to do, he is in their grasp and he won't be stopped. Now it's merely a curiosity, what he would agree to, I think."

"Nonsense," Alice said the minute Susanna fell silent. "Even if you are right that he's in the grasp of the Death Eaters, there's always something to be done. You have nothing left to lose, you've already told us enough to put yourself in danger. Why stop now?"

"Our reasoning for why we want it shouldn't matter to you anyway," he said shortly. Intimidation didn't work with her, so saying more, unless the words were chosen carefully, would make no difference.

"I had supposed you would want useful information, but if you want bits of trivia, I'll supply them." She adopted her bored tone once more. "He pledged his life and faithful service to the Dark Lord, that he would follow the Dark Lord's every command until the day he died, and that he would never tell things he knew and would learn about the Dark Lord and His servants to anyone except those who also served the Dark Lord. A common oath. I've heard as much as you, Mr Longbottom, of Fenrir's activities. He's already ours, no matter if I'm dead or not."

They'd figured as such. They'd figured as such, but damn it, why couldn't they make this into what they needed? "All right, fine. There's that," Frank said. It hardly seemed like something to put a bump in. "Freedom in servitude. Sounds like a great idea, right."

Alice sent him a look of distracted worry, her own mind on the semantics that Frank had brought up. "There's something to this, Frank." She bit her lip and looked at Miss King, who was considering her with interest. "You're still hoping the Death Eaters will win this, aren't you?"

Susanna gave as much of a shrug as she could in her restraints. "I have my loyalties, and they can't be wiped out merely by my capture. I would like to survive most of all, however. Any more psychoanalytical questions?"

"We ran face first into a brick wall when we went to the Werewolf Registry, such as it is, when we went there looking for help and cooperation." And everywhere else for that matter, but there was no reason for her to know that much. "Are there more Death Eaters to this?"

"You expect that I know about Death Eater involvement since I was arrested," Susanna repeated, weariness creeping into her voice. "Mr Longbottom, I would suspect that we are involved in many sectors, but I'm not certain which. They don't allow us to know each person who is on our side of this, of course, or someone in my situation might just write up a list and hand it over."

No one was that lucky. "I thought you may have been involved in further aspects and planning, my mistake." Of course, that was presuming that there had been a further plan at the time. "The only way we can get all these roadblocks out of the way is currently, and debatably, through you."

Susanna began to speak and paused, adopting a contemplative expression. "We had no contacts in the Werewolf Registry when I was involved. We did, however, have plans to release the tracking charms set on werewolves once we returned Greyback to his pack. Bradley was the one set to break those charms, and I believe he had talked to a man who worked in the Registry about those charms. I have no clue what the plans are now, but odds are that much hasn't changed. Especially if you haven't found him."

"The man," Frank immediately looked at Alice. "The one you talked to, who gave you such a run around. He was a Charms specialist there, wasn't he?"

"Pittman," Alice said with a nod, noting the sudden tilt of Susanna's head. "Is that it? Elliot Pittman? I _knew_ something was off about that man! There's avoidance and then there's -- " She regained her composure. "Thank you for this information. We appreciate it. Is there anything further you're willing to divulge?"

Susanna looked a little surprised at the quick deduction, then immediately banished it from her face, and talked. "My job was to make certain that the Department was empty, discover the possible whereabouts of his 'pack', and make the necessary preparations to get there. There's no information I can give you there. It's too bad Bradley's dead, he'd have spoken days before I did and told you much more."

"If wishes were horses..." Frank trailed off dryly, and then sighed. "Okay, then," he added, making a note on the parchment in front of him in his somewhat illegible handwriting and then looked to Alice.

"I think we're done here," Alice said, phrasing it as half a question. "Thank you, again, and ... we appreciate your courage in doing this."

Susanna tossed her head at that as though to scoff, but made no sound. "Goodbye, then, until tomorrow," she said, with a forced amiable tone.

"Thank you," Frank echoed, finishing his note, and let Alice out of the room first. When the door clicked shut, he leaned against the wall next to the door. "This is getting bigger by the second," he finally said.

Alice resisted the urge to move closer to her husband and leaned against the other side of the door. "We can only hope it doesn't get too out of control... Frank, we need to talk to the others." The Order. "We need to figure this out before it becomes a danger to the public beyond what it already is. I'll talk to Pittiman, do you think? He already knows me."

He nodded. "You talk to him, I'll message Dumbledore to call a meeting at the first chance I have. We need to figure out what's going on and we need to do it soon."

She nodded and pulled him into a quick, affectionate kiss. "I can't wait until this is over," she admitted. "Because I'm starting to get tired of pub takeout. Who brings it home tonight?"

"The price we pay for finally hitting the big time and getting to run an investigation," he sighed, letting one hand rest on her waist. "I'll get it. Usual?"

"The usual," she said with a sad sort of smile. She pulled herself away with a sigh and straightened his robes. "I'll see you then. I love you."

"Love you too. Good luck with Pittiman," he said, straightening his posture, and going to find a place he could send a Patronus message to Dumbledore.

~*~

James Potter wasn't two months from taking his NEWTs and leaving school, but he still found the time to be Head Boyish -- not exactly one of his top priorities, but it couldn't hurt to make a few worthwhile friends by at least pretending to care about them, right? He smiled and ruffled the hair of a frazzled fifth year after helping him with OWL preparation for Transfiguration, then sat back down at his table with his mates and leaned back in the chair. "It's hard work being James Potter," he said, as though in conclusion.

"Yes, we noticed. Will you be taking time from snogging Lily to help the little old ladies cross the Hogsmeade high street next weekend, or d'you reckon you'll both just disappear and implode from the pressure of being Head People?" Sirius asked dryly.

James grinned. "Oh, the snogging. The snogging is necessary, without the snogging my head would explode. All the pressure, NEWTs, duties, being a leader to every student in the school..."

"Are you even studying?" Peter spoke up in the rare interruption, even questioning. "Because -- well -- " He looked down at his own copious notes. "We should probably be studying."

"You know he's not." Remus looked at Sirius's Charms notes, which were part actual information, part doodling. "Really, Sirius, do you expect to pass anything with that kind of information?"

Sirius shrugged carelessly. "It's all up here anyway," he said, tapping his head. "That's where it needs to be, right?"

"That bit's not right," Peter said, squinting at Sirius's notes. "And that's not even a word."

Remus snatched the parchment to look at where Peter was pointing. "'Triangulation Constant: the three way balancing act of powerness between wizard, charm, and object -- powerness?" He looked up at Sirius over the top.

Sirius took the notes right back. "I know what it means, who cares what word I use in my notes?" he said. "Powerness can be a word."

"No," Remus said patiently. "It really can't, Sirius."

James sniggered. "You can't just make up words," he said. "That’s against the rules, or something."

"We'll see who's laughing when I have the NEWT," Sirius said.

"Not like you need it," Peter said under his breath.

If Sirius heard it, he made no sign of it. Remus gave Peter a sidelong glance, and though he wasn't going to say it out loud, he agreed with Peter. "Well, okay, 'powerness,'" Remus allowed skeptically. "I wouldn't write it in the exam booklet is all I'm saying."

James looked up from his actual revision at realising something. "We should be working on Defence. It's the only thing that's actually worthwhile."

"There's the way of it!" Sirius said. 

"But we have to take _all_ of the tests," Remus said reasonably.

"Yeah, but the one test I don't want to fail is dueling a Death Eater," James pointed out.

"Well if you don't pass the tests you won't have to worry about it anyway," Remus said, a bit more shortly than he'd meant for it to come out. "I mean. If you didn't pass you'd have to come back, right?"

James scoffed, sceptically amused at Remus. "We'll pass, Moony, we could pass in our sleep, the lot of us," he dismissed. "We've proven ourselves cleverer than most, even Dumbledore's noticed." He raised his eyebrows.

"Watch your knickers, Moony, I think they're in a bunch," Sirius said with a slight grin. 

The full moon was coming. He blamed his annoyance on that, even though the wolf barely stirred until the day of. "That may be," he said, looking to see if they'd been heard by someone else, "but we still have to pass NEWTs."

James leaned forward, and pushed his glasses up, making sure that everyone was looking at him before he said, "We'll pass. Even Wormtail will!"

"Well, most likely Wormtail," Sirius added offhandedly with a teasing laugh.

Peter's quill snapped in half at that and as James snorted in amusement at him, he just said, "Can we -- can we get on with revision, then, I really have to get on this soon."

"Yes, indeed," Remus said, back to business as he paged through the notes. "Well, the Triangulation Constant... we covered that, I guess, did you need that again?" he asked Peter.

Peter looked in hopes that he could just carry on, but... "Can I just see your notes, Moony, I just need another look -- "

"Whatever, Peter," James yawned, and put his feet up on one of the empty chairs. "We're over here whenever you're ready." He raised an eyebrow at Sirius. "So... think we all got an owl from old Albus?"

Remus gladly relinquished his notes to Peter, while Sirius looked to James. "What, all of us _all_ of us?" he asked James. "I hope so. Now there's a next great adventure for us, am I right?"

"Well, if you did, then that's three of us," James said, keeping his voice down.

"Yeah I did," Sirius answered. "You and... ?" James gave Sirius a significant look. "Well, I had to ask," he pointed out.

"Right. Me and Filch," James said with a snigger.

"He of the fearsome dust mop, doing battle with evil."

"And Mrs Norris, his sidekick?"

"She's the true terror, you know. He takes them out with the mop and she tears their throats out!"

"It's funny until she's chasing you down the hall," Peter said under his breath.

"And then it's hilarious?" Remus added with a slight smirk.

"Exactly," James said, sending Remus a big grin.

"I got one," Peter decided to mention just then.

Remus finally looked up from his parchment. "Me too." 

Sirius looked at James, and grinned. "There you have it!" he said.

"That's bleeding _fantastic,_ " James exclaimed in an undertone. "All of us, I told you we didn't have to worry!"

_The Order of the Phoenix is not a NEWT,_ Remus thought to himself, but didn't give the thought voice. "Well, that I'm not sure of," he answered.

"He doesn't take stupid people," James said, as though that concluded the debate. "So we'll be fine. Can we keep going, Wormtail?"

“Yeah," Peter said, pushing Remus's notes back at him. "Yeah, let's go."

"Of course," Remus said, all business again and taking up his notes. "Sirius?"

"I'm listening," he said with a small, put-upon sigh.

"Go on, Professor Lupin, do your thing," James joked, leaning forward and taking up his quill.

Remus chortled, and looked back at his notes for their next subject at hand. "Okay. Substantive Locomotion as it applies to inanimate objects..."

James made a face at Sirius across the table and looked over his notes as Remus spoke, taking notes and choosing the rare option of paying attention and being responsible, like a Head Boy would be. After all, it was very difficult being James Potter.


	8. Cornerstones

_History is no mystery. History is never a mystery! If it is a mystery, you’ve not been taught properly -- there’s a clear progression of events, a cause and effect, and for every event there is a cornerstone on which it is built by the people involved. Ultimately, people make history, but there is always that foundation._ Introduction to _A Magical History of the British Isle._

_June 1978_  
Amycus couldn't say that he was extremely pleased to be doing it, but over a year after he first visited Fenrir Greyback's pack house with his sister, he was returning again. This time he carried an order from the Dark Lord himself, and his first reaction was 'finally'. The halfbreeds were being utilised, and his sister's above and beyond and even freakish attention to this project would not be wasted.

As per his order, Amycus went straight back to the pack house and calmly knocked, as he had before.

"Do your job or I'll make _sure_ Fenrir hides you so hard that you can't lay down for a week," Laurel spat at Wesley, further vitriol halted by a knock on the door. She was spared the vicious glare of an angry Wesley as she stalked towards it. "You heard me," she shouted, and ripped the door open as violently as she could.

At seeing Amycus, Laurel forced a bitter smile. "Come in, wizard, you're _welcome._ "

Amycus was not fooled, although the badly masked contempt in her smile was preferable to having his face ripped off. "Thank you," he said, entering and letting the door shut behind him. "I bring an order from the Dark Lord," he stated plainly.

"Oh, well, that's not _my_ business," Laurel said, her smile's bitterness seeping into her tone. "No, your sister will have to hear that, but she's too busy -- " She couldn't get the words out, and forced out a harsh breath, calming herself. "I'll find where she's -- _whoring_ and bring her."

He blinked at the werewolf for a moment, wondering if he should even try to piece that together. Was there anything to piece? Alecto certainly wasn't... just _wasn't._ He wasn't thinking about this. Ever. He took a breath and said coldly, "You do that, then."

Laurel barked a laugh and stormed up the stairs, leading down a ruffled-looking Alecto and an undeniably irritated Fenrir Greyback. "Amycus! AMYCUS." Alecto hurried down the steps, throwing her arms around him with a beaming smile. "There you are, oh, tell me that you've brought good news, the Minister's dead and our Lord's at the front?" she joked.

He gave a short laugh, embracing his sister in kind and taking his time in letting her go. "I wish I could say such a thing. I think you'll like what I have to say, anyway," he told her; she looked different, but still undeniably his sister. "Good evening," he said, turning his attention to Fenrir with as much formality as the situation called for. "I've brought you orders from our Lord."

Fenrir didn't get a chance to react, as Alecto laughed and clapped her hands like an excited child. He ignored her, and replied to her brother just as formally, "Good to hear, what do you have for us? We'll do our best."

"We'll destroy 'em," Alecto added, gleeful, nudging her brother in the ribs. "Who is it, a Mudblood, a traitor? This is exciting, we've only been taking down any halfblood families we can find."

"Yes, we've heard, the Ministry is at a loss," Amycus answered, amused at his sister's reaction, but began to seriously reiterate the orders. "In MLE, there is a man who is talking about a major overhaul in the Auror program. He's having just as much clout as Crouch these days, and could give them even more power in fighting against our Lord."

He took _The Daily Prophet_ out of his inner robes pocket and handed it to Alecto. "Page three, outlines his whole damn plan," he told her. "His brother's family is the ones who will be targeted for attack, however -- I understand that there are children, they are to your liking, yes?" he finished with a dry smile.

Alecto rifled through the paper, past a picture of the Minister in the midst of a grim speech and a picture of the Dark Mark, until she found the article. "Oh, Scrimgeour, he's the one who dragged Wilkes in for questioning but didn't get anything, what a twat -- "

Fenrir abruptly snatched the newspaper from her. "Scrimgeour," he repeated, almost overwhelmed with amusement. He knew Scrimgeour, the Auror who sneered at him and called him a madman, who now talked about taking a "firm hand" with any and all threats to wizarding society. The picture showed him unchanged, stolid and gesturing, the self-righteous and smug warrior -- now Fenrir had a chance, with the Dark Lord’s protection. He grinned.

"You could have just asked," Alecto reminded Fenrir, but got no response more than a snort of laughter. "Children, Fenrir," she added, gaining his attention a bit with that. "You can bring them to the pack, Fenrir, we can always use more children."

Laurel made a noise of disgust and shoved past Alecto on her way to the back of the house. Alecto just shrugged, hiding a smile, and waved her hand in front of Fenrir's face, finally catching his attention. "We’ll teach Scrimgeour a lesson," was Fenrir's only reply to that. He folded the newspaper and handed it to her, catching her gaze in his. "Now, where were we?"

Alecto shook her head, unconsciously stepping closer to Amycus. "Afraid not, I'd like to reminisce with my brother, it can wait," she promised, sighing as he stalked off. "He gets grumpy," she excused him, looking up at Amycus with her best innocent look.

"I can see that," he answered, pleased with how relatively easy that was -- not that he'd really been expecting trouble. "How are you, Alecto?"

Alecto struggled to find something to tell him that wasn’t about the pack itself. "I'm... oh, well, that's the thing, I'm on my way out of here fairly soon -- I forgot you haven't heard every bit of everything, there's a lot going on."

"Out of here? Not back home," he said. It didn't seem as if that was the thing, but he could hope for it. Though her stay with the pack had a purpose, all this time among savages could not possibly be healthy.

She looked at him as though he was mad. "No! I’m taking a werewolf to go catch or kill Curenton’s brat. Hopefully kill," she added, blithe as anything. "Either way I have to disguise myself and go along, so says Fenrir, so it will be done." She rolled her eyes.

He raised an eyebrow. "You look so pleased about that."

She just shrugged. "I'm hoping for a kill. If not, it's a waste of my talents and I'd rather be here."

"Here," he echoed. No matter how much he wasn't thinking about it, Laurel's earlier words were in his brain. Was it something, or a ramble of a jealous, displaced second-in-command?

"Here," she repeated, amused. Of course, he couldn't possibly comprehend that she'd actually want to stay here. "Where I'm needed, not at some bleeding-heart werewolf-neutering sanctuary."

"Well, get it done quickly, kill or whatever you need to and then leave. Speed and efficiency, your usual," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "I have dead weight with me, it'll take longer than I want. Come on, let's sit, I'll make you tea."

"Well, you know how to deal with dead weight," Amycus replied ambiguously. "Lead the way."

~*~

It was the wolf's fault, Jeremy decided. After all, it was well-documented (at least, in his father’s book) that the wolf was naturally restless and claustrophobic. If it wasn't for the wolf pacing back and forth and then forcing him to pace his room -- which, for the first time, seemed far too small -- he wouldn't have ever figured out how to climb out the window without breaking his legs and ran for it. Terrible affliction, being a werewolf, really.

He had to get out, though, or he'd really start losing his mind. 

There was a public Floo somewhere in Hogsmeade, he knew that. So he had to sneak into a house with an open door to Floo... well, they'd never know the difference, would they, just minus a few logs and a pinch of powder? Three minutes later, he was stumbling out of a fireplace and into Hogsmeade village. 

Breaking, entering, and theft were completely worth it.

Jeremy stared, stunned, at the teeming village, and could find no reason not to take advantage of his current situation. He was free and it was time to explore; the smile he wore was more the wolf's than his. 

In the Three Broomsticks, Gilly waved a butterbeer frantically as she told Julia the story of her uncles' FANTASTIC win against the Arrows for what was probably the thousandth time, and nearly dropped the bottle. "Fuck!" she cried, wiping at the butterbeer that now soaked her thigh, then closed her mouth tightly as she saw Professor McGonagall not a hundred feet away. She grinned at Julia and glanced away to the window... and all signs of merriment dropped from her face. "Holy shite, Frobisher!" 

Julia was using a screwdriver to tighten the cover back on to her Nikon, only half listening to Gilly's tale interjecting at the appropriate moments, which she knew by heart. The sudden break caught her attention and her head snapped up. "... What?" she asked, prompting.

"Were you listening? You weren't listening to me," Gilly accused, a little hurt (but not really), then remembered the point. "Just -- I think I just saw Curenton outside, all right?" she hissed with some urgency.

She was about to point out that she had been listening -- the first twenty times she'd heard the story, but stopped when Gilly told her that interesting detail. "What? Really?" She turned around to look out the window behind her.

Gilly snorted. "Er, yeah, why else would I say it? Am I the one who's been fantasizing about him showing up and doing the sweeping-off-the-feet thing? Sorry, that's your thing -- I'm serious, anyway! He was heading that way."

Julia twisted back around and made a face at Gilly. "Okay, ignoring everything you just said, I'm going to go see if he'll let me chase him down or if this is just a figment of your imagination." She packed her camera in her bag and lifting it over her head to rest on her shoulder. "I'll see you back at school."

Jeremy found himself staring through the Honeydukes window and the people inside before he realised that they could see him as well. It only occurred to him now, at least ten minutes into his runaway adventure, that there were a lot of people here might potentially recognise him. He looked around, behind and around him. For once, he was more wary than the wolf. 

He tried to relax and lean against the window, but nearly slipped on the surface when he saw Julia walking towards him. Owls were one thing, but seeing her in person was going to be worse. He averted his eyes, stuck his hands in his pockets, and left it up to her.

Though she'd kept her promises to write, and he'd written back, it was different seeing him. She steeled herself and walked up to him at the shop window. "Hi," she said, and cleared her throat nervously.

This was by far one of the stupidest situations he'd ever managed to get himself into. His parents were going to kill him if they found out, he had no clue how he was going to sneak back into the house, and now he was facing his best friend who he'd happened to reject -- and he was completely unprepared. "Er, hi," he said, doing his best to look casual. "It's... good to see you."

Well, it was better than she'd feared. "It's good to see you too." She sent him a smile. "You didn't say you were going to be here or anything."

"That's because this was sort of on a lark," he admitted, having the decency to look a little abashed. "Out the window and into the Floo, that kind of thing. Didn't even know it was Hogsmeade weekend."

She couldn't help it, she laughed. "I guess that's a good reason to not say," she said. "On the other hand, I probably should have guessed."

"Probably," he said. "I took a tip from you and your sneaky ways. What my parents don't know won't hurt them."

"My ways _are_ sneaky," she was forced to admit. "Well. I'm glad you did. Saved me from listening to the Broadmoors' brilliant defeat of Appleby for the millionth time, if nothing else."

Jeremy couldn't help looking amused. "That story again? Wasn't that three years ago? I remember that story word for word and I haven't seen her in ages."

Julia grinned and started, "Well, according to her it was their most recent victory, but it sounded suspiciously like last time. I'm starting to think she's just recycling these stories."

"The Falcons can do no wrong. They're saints wielding bludgeons," he quipped. "But don't let me ruin your plans, I'm just here to get some chocolate and fresh air."

"Oh, I didn't -- I mean," she stammered, and hoped this wasn't going to come out wrong and she would make things bad and weird. Again. "Gilly and I weren't doing anything. There weren't any plans."

"Oh." Well, that bollocksed up his chances of a getaway. "Well, I could use some company."

On one hand, if it was going to be awkward, Julia didn't know how long it would last, but on the other, she really wanted to see him. So she smiled at him and said, "I'd like to join you."

Despite how badly he'd fouled things up before, he had missed her. "Let's go then," he said, and smiled back.

Her smile widened and she said, "So. Chocolate?" she started.

He held the door open for her. "Chocolate. I'll even buy you a bar."

"See, free chocolate. I knew I made the right decision." She entered Honeydukes, which was still doing land office business even at an afternoon hour.

Jeremy had not exactly thought about how many people would be there, including other people he knew, but he chose to ignore that and get his business finished as soon as possible. "And what would be your pleasure today?"

"Hm. I think just a bar," she said, picking one up but taking her time looking at other things. "These are great." She held up a package of their newest product, Peppermint Toads. "They really hop, kind of like chocolate frogs. Gilly ate a dozen and then she vomited in Defence."

He started to laugh. "A _dozen?_ Was it on a dare, or was she just hungry?"

"... Well, I'm pretty sure there wasn't a dare, I think she was just scribbling her essay right before class and the professor was showing a slide of Inferi or some such, and BLEGH." Her arms swept in front of her body to indicate projectile vomiting.

"These are the moments I actually miss Hogwarts." He considered the Fizzing Whizbees. "You know, when mass chaos would break out. Or Quidditch. But now I get to go to pros, minors, you name it, so..."

"So what do you need with Hogwarts Quidditch?" she supplied with a smirk.

"Not much, besides one of its Chasers," he answered promptly.

"Slick answer," she said, and picked up some Drooble's while she was at it, being that she was nearly out. "Which one?"

"I always thought that Annie Peakes, with the legs, she's fit. And nice," he added.

"Yeah, when she's not grabbing the tail of your broom," Julia replied, arching one eyebrow.

"You said that then and you say it now, but I didn't see it," Jeremy said, all innocence.

"Yeah. I said it then and I say it now because it's the truth," she said with as much dignity as she could. "The only reason you didn't see anything was 'cause you won your bet over the match."

"It's not cheating unless you get caught, and if it gets you a win, it's just good strategy," Jeremy said, mostly joking, "not that I think she _did_ it or anything." He browsed through some more expensive sweets, considering something for his mother in case he got caught coming back home.

"It's your voice, but it's the captain of the Falmouth Falcons' words coming out," she said.

He put his hands up. "Oh, there is no way you just said that."

She turned to face him, her hands on her hips, chin lifted, and smirk on her face all the while. "And if I did?" she retorted loftily.

Suddenly it was like they were back in the bookstore, because he was wearing the same stupid look while trapped in an aisle with her. This time, he had sense, though -- but the wolf inexplicably lurched in some sort of craving reach. It was too strong; he gave in, closed the distance between them, and said, "Then I'd have to shut you up."

The change of look on her face happened so quickly, she imagined, that it had to be somewhat comical. For a moment, she was dumbstruck but managed to regain her powers of speech. "Uh. Really," she floundered nervously.

"Yeah," he said, to stall, to consider briefly the voice that reminded him how this ended the last time, then went to kiss her. He abruptly stopped not an inch away from kissing her properly and muttered, "No way, no way -- "

He'd recognise those voices anywhere, though. In the surprised silence, he had to do something. He moved away from Julia, turned around, and faced his old roommates. "Hey," he said, exhaling.

"I _told_ you prats it was him," Dirk Cresswell declared triumphantly, with a large grin, and added brightly, "and with Frobisher, too,’s just like old times around here!"

"With Frobisher or _with_ Frobisher?" Will Chambers asked, grinning ear to ear. "I always said -- "

"Hey, she's right there!" Bastian Derrick nudged Will with one of his massive Beater's arms, nearly moving him an inch to the right. "Anyway, it was obvious."

Julia was still considerably off-centre from Jeremy's recent proximity and the arrival of his roommates. Her sweets seemed to fall right out of her hands and instead of answering, she occupied herself by kneeling down to pick them up.

Jeremy glanced down at her to stall again, honestly speechless. "Hey," he said, just to say something, then finally said, "And here I thought you three would look smarter and better-looking without me to make you look bad, but it hasn't helped."

"Oh and you, you are just as _hilarious_ as you always were." Dirk eyed the shelf of sweets in front of him before casually nicking a package of gum and slipping it into his pocket. "And we may not be smarter or better-looking, but we certainly are richer," he added with a good-natured smirk.

"Oh, enjoy it while you can, I'll rob you blind on pro pools once you're out of here," Jeremy said with a casual wave. "Oh, and five points from Hufflepuff, really, Cresswell," he added with his best McGonagall imitation.

"Five points? Bah, easily made up. Businesses plan for a certain percentage of shoplifting anyway, I am merely doing what is expected of me," he said with a flourish.

Will snorted. "Oh, I bet Professor Sprout would love that defence. You're a prefect!"

"So?" Jeremy asked, backing subtly one step to be closer to Julia. "It's a _badge,_ not a cabinet appointment."

"Dirk, in politics," Bastian sniggered.

"Fine. Next time one of you asks if I have any gum, I'm not going to share," Dirk sniffed. "Laugh while you can."

"He can manage to nick a pack of gum and can string a sentence together, he can be a politician," Jeremy said, amused. "That's about all the skill you need."

"Oh, not _politics_ again, we even had a few months away from politics," Will complained.

"Sorry, Will, I know you can only think about one thing at a time," Dirk said in a deadpan.

"Hey, that's not true," Will protested. "I can do two things at once all the time -- "

"Chew gum and walk at the same time, good job," Jeremy interrupted.

"I forgot how it was having two of you," Will sighed.

"Yeah,’s too bad," Bastian finally spoke up, as the conversation had slowed a little.

"That's us, one 'Who's On First' short of a quality comedy act," Dirk said. "It's probably just as well, I don't get baseball. Never did. Say, should we leave you two alone? You looked like you were... involved," he added suggestively, motioning between Jeremy and Julia, who hung back.

"You know the thing about the hippogriff in the room, it really doesn't need to be pointed out since everyone knows it's there anyway, but thanks, Dirk," Jeremy said, wearing a good-natured smile although punching Dirk for bringing it back to that seemed like a great idea right at that moment. "Yeah, you lot go on, I'll see you next Hogsmeade or something. I have the best pro Quidditch pool in Wales if you want in, it only takes one owl," he added with a grin.

"Not on your life," Will swore, hand to his heart. "I'm finished with Quidditch betting."

"Just because Tutshill's losing now? There are other teams, I know Hufflepuff's got the loyalty thing but really, it takes a hell of a team to beat Tutshill and you saw the Arrows plow right through them, an Arrows bet is a sure thing -- comes down to point spread, really," Jeremy said, opening his hands wide.

"No way it's the Arrows, my money's on the Wasps," Bastian said, "I'd put money on that."

"What is with your _thing_ for the Arrows?" Will demanded of Jeremy. "Really, I'm curious. They're not _that_ great, not good enough to beat the Harpies -- "

"Oh, I dunno about that," Jeremy said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I just have a feeling about the Arrows, and this is what I know. Don't think too hard on it, Will."

Will exchanged a nearly identical look with Bastian. "Right, whatever you say," he said skeptically, though his expression said something completely different.

"Like you've ever known him to be wrong," Dirk said. If he had a sickle for every one that Curenton had won off Derrick and Chambers, he... well. He would have a lot of sickles. "Cheers, Curenton, we'll see you around; I'll drop you a line sometime!"

"Can't wait to hear from you." Jeremy watched them go before finally able to close his eyes and wince at the way the wolf reacted to being held back for the sake of his old friends. "Julia."

Julia pushed her hair out of her face and looked up at him. Alone again. "Yeah," she replied mildly with a slight smile.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For... what I did."

"You.... you had a reason for everything that you said," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just -- I didn't like feeling like things weren't okay between us."

Jeremy raked his hair back, and restrained a cynical laugh into a scoff. "It's not you and me that's the problem."

She couldn't keep from frowning slightly. "Well. I just... didn't enjoy feeling pushed away. Flat out rejection aside," she added, self-deprecating.

"We have to leave," he said, taking the sweets from her and replacing them onto the shelf at random, agitated. "I can't talk about this here, there are -- " it was _loud,_ and it was bad enough trying to handle his own head without an audience talking at the top of their lungs.

"Okay," she agreed calmly, and willingly left Honeydukes with him. They walked down the High Street, away from the crowds of students and Saturday regulars. She waited for him, somewhat anxious.

Jeremy paced -- a trait of his father's which annoyed him, but now he was too agitated to stop himself. "Look," he said. "If I was here -- at Hogwarts -- with you -- fuck, you think I wouldn't date you in a _second?_ You're -- you're my best friend, you're one of the only people I trust. But this, it isn't fair to you, it isn't fair to you that you're here and I'm there and I'm this and -- it's not how this thing works. Even in the best of worlds, even in the world my dad hopes for, this would never work." _You can't understand,_ he almost said, and recognised it as the wolf.

She was silent for a long time, organising her thoughts. "It's not fair," she agreed. Where Jeremy felt the need to pace, she felt the need to be totally immobile and wished she could sit somewhere. "Things are never fair. If people waited for things to be fair for something they wanted..." She looked up at him, unsure of how much was making it through.

"This isn't just about _this_ separation," he said, his frustration starting to show. "This is -- I'm a werewolf, you're a witch. We're not just us. This isn't about us. This is about what we are."

Of course, it couldn't be ignored. She nodded, and swallowed. "It's important," she said finally. "I guess it comes down to whether or not you think what separates us is bigger than... you know. What brings us together."

He stopped pacing and just looked at the ground. "I think there has to be someone who can give you what you want and more, and all I'll do is drag you down."

The fact that he wasn't looking at her hurt, but it made it easier to look at him when she spoke. "I want you."

That hurt worse than any rejection. "I might as well have died on my front lawn that night, that's not me anymore, I'm not _Jeremy the Hufflepuff_ anymore. That's who you want, and he died a year and a half ago."

She could feel her heart beating faster, her chest getting tight, and she felt like she could have been sick. "What do you want," she asked flatly, swiping at her cheek hurriedly.

He didn't even have to think, didn't think before he answered. "I want you."

The breath she didn't realise that she'd been holding couldn't have rushed out of her quicker if he'd hit her in the stomach. "I don't know what else I can say."

"It would be great." His voice sounded hollow, but he felt even moreso. "We'd be great. Perfect. I'd be here every month to see you until a bad month, and then I'd be bloody and bandaged and I'd lose all control and brood and yell, and then you'd realise I was right, that this isn't what you wanted. And then you'd move on."

_Or you'd finally hear how screwed up my life really has been, and you'd resent me because you thought I was doing things for all the wrong reasons._ "Give me some credit here," she said wearily.

"I would if I thought you were hearing a single word I was saying," he snapped off.

"I'm _hearing,_ it's the processing that's getting it jumbled," she said. Her face was burning and she still sort of wanted to be sick. "I hear you. I do. And I know when it's going to be bad, it'll be -- " She clammed up and her arms crossed in front of her chest in a protective measure.

"Too much," he completed, closing himself off by turning away. "So."

"Not what I was going to say," she said impatiently. She wanted to kick herself -- she never learned. "I know what it looks like. I also know you like to be right and -- and I don't know what you want. I know you said me but you're pushing me out again."

"I want to take the NEWTs," he said. "I want to get a job. I want a lot of things, and Fenrir Greyback made them impossible."

Julia nodded, but he still was not facing her. "Yeah," she said quietly after a long moment of silence between them. "There's always a list of things we want."

Jeremy shook his head, but took his time to say it right. "At least -- maybe I can give you what you want." His voice came out more strained, more tense than he cared to hear it. "When you're back home. Let's try."

She felt like she should be able to smile, but it didn't come. "Okay," she said, nodding. "Okay. Once I'm out."

He looked back at her, then approached her again; finally he kissed her on the cheek. "We should both get back."

"Yeah," she said and kissed him briefly, just because she could. Then she impulsively threw her arms around him and hugged, tightly. "I do hear you. And I always listen," she added.

Though feeling very much like he'd missed something and a little bit in shock, he put his arms around her. "Sorry," he muttered again.

She was blushing again -- she supposed that was a sign that things were moving towards some kind of normalcy. She hoped. She released him and shook her head. "Don't apologise," she said. "I'll be home in three weeks. I'm going to think about what kind of trouble we can get into."

"Good idea, we'll both think some things up and have a brilliant summer," he said, with the start of a smile. "Still want that chocolate?"

"Sure," she replied, mirroring the smile. "And the gum, don't forget the gum, it's the only thing that keeps me awake in history some days -- "

"Just no Peppermint Toads," he agreed. "Come on, I bet we'll be safe from any hecklers, Dirk and the blokes are probably at Zonko's by now."

"Yeah," she said as they started walking, and then she smirked up at him. "Derrick's just mad he can't catch me on the pitch, you know."

"One day," Jeremy swore, and put his arm around her. "One day I'll get an owl four or five words long bragging about how he finally took you out in Hufflepuff versus Slytherin, and then I'll have to find a bat and redefine the word 'beater' for him."

"Uh, and then we'll all wake up because it's never going to happen," she returned. "But thank you, I consider that a totally proportional response."

"It's always good to have a contingency plan," he said sensibly, and opened the door of Honeydukes for her again.

~*~

One of Newt Scamander’s least favourite parts of his job was the quarterly budget review. The previous Department head had an overly complicated system in place, and Newt liked to think of his system as one that benefitted the Department in terms of time spent and letting division heads feel as though they had a modicum of actual control.

Naturally, there were always some who perhaps should not have been trusted with control, given that they had neither the common sense nor the compassion that God himself had given a goose.

Nettie at the Department’s front desk had confiscated his cricket bat on the way to see the head of the treasury committee in the Minister’s office. She’d said that it was one thing to carry it into Department meetings if he felt like he needed to get his point across quickly, but quite another to go shake it at a higher up. Newt liked Nettie. She wasn’t half as stupid as most people made her out to be, and she was blunt to the point of being nearly abrasive. It was endearing and refreshing.

The budget figures for the next quarter came back to him, and unsurprisingly, the Department’s budget had been cut slightly – again. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was reaping the benefits, what with the war and everything. Admittedly, Newt supposed that nobody preferred having the war on, and would simply cry politics if one particular part of the Department hadn’t taken a hit harder that the rest of them – but the Werewolf Registry was run on a shoestring budget as it was. The new budget didn’t even really qualify as a shoestring. 

The Registry had been his own brainchild, many years ago, when it had been praised as a progressive body that would bridge the gap between the wizards and werewolves of Great Britain. And so it had been – until the Beast and Being divisions of the Department began to shunt the Registry between them, successfully eroding any sort of effectiveness that it had. Programs to aid in poverty relief and counseling for families had been there once, but had fallen away as the division decayed over the years from lack of care and lack of funds. The employee turnover rate had been high, and it was joked that the position of Head of the Werewolf Registry was not worth a warm bucket of spit. The fact that the current head, Maldwyn Twiddle had been demoted into the position (from the _Centaur_ office of all places) and his picture was in the dictionary beside the word ‘apathetic’ did not help the image any, and it certainly did not help the Registry.

Unfortunately, it was a full time job on its own getting anyone else to give a damn, and Newt already had a day job. But this new budget was almost an insult.

With a nod from the secretary he went to the treasurer’s office. The treasurer was a middle-aged witch who looked up from her paperwork when the door opened. “Mr. Scamander,” she said, clearing her throat nervously. Luckily, he seemed to have left his legendary cricket bat elsewhere.

Newt liked it when the people he needed to talk to were his children’s age. It made yelling at them somewhat harder. “I need to have a discussion with you,” he said, brandishing the summary of the Department’s budget. “I realise that there’s a war on and that manpower as well as resources are being shunted to Magical Law Enforcement. But why take money away from the one division in my Department that’s already running on the bare essentials?”

She sighed, and rubbed her forehead. “This is awkward. Okay, how do I say it…” She looked for the words.

Newt was, as ever, not into pleasantries. “Out with it, ducky.”

“I gave the division head exactly what he was asking for.”

Interesting. “ _Really,_ ” he said, pacing in front of her desk.

“Yes,” she replied. “I asked Twiddle too, but he said he’d worked the numbers and was absolutely sure –“ 

So he was in the wrong office, preparing to shout at the wrong person. Good to know. “Great, thank you,” he said, and turned and left.

He was upstairs and in the Registry in two minutes flat, stopping long enough to collect his cricket bat from Nettie. He pushed the door open, and took it all in. The two desks, the long row of filing cabinets, the large map of the United Kingdom and Ireland on the wall with clusters of dots, showing tracked werewolves hadn’t changed – well, all right, the map was an addition since its founding in 1947, but he wasn’t going to be picky.

The girl who sat at the desk looked up with him with wide eyes, and he asked, “Is Mr. Twiddle in?” She wordlessly pointed at his closed door and he nodded to her, advancing and pushing the door open.

Twiddle was seated with his feet up on his desk, doing the _Prophet_ ’s crossword puzzle in pencil, and completely unperturbed by the interruption, even when Newt asked dryly, “Working hard or hardly working?”

“You can make an appointment with Nancy out front if you need to speak with me,” he answered laconically.

“I’m here now and you’re looking for thirty across, so I think we’ll just talk until your next appointment comes in,” Newt growled. “This division isn’t going to have two knuts to rub together if you keep reducing and cutting.”

“Consider it my part of the war effort, since I’m hardly fit to run around waving my wand at Death Eaters.”

“I’m hardly considering you fit to handle safety scissors right now, are you _trying_ to destroy the division? Are you, really?”

“Strong words,” Twiddle chortled.

“I’m feeling strong today.” Newt again brandished the financial summary as though he weren’t holding his cricket bat in his other hand. “What is your problem?”

“Even when this Department had the money, nobody used it,” Twiddle said. “It’s all good money after bad in here. The Registry is more useful in its current capacity, and it can run at this capacity at _that_ number,” he finished, pointing at the paper.

Newt glowered. Heavily. Twiddle quailed slightly, and coughed. “Mr. Scamander,” he started. “You know that it’s true. The Registry may not be acting as, I’m sure, you had originally conceived, but for what I inherited when I came to this position you can hardly blame me – “

“ _Blame_ you?”

“-- The treasurer asked me if there were corners I’d be willing to cut. For the Aurors, you understand.”

They were playing him like a bloody fiddle. “You’re right, I can’t blame you, it’s the damned bureaucracy and the results oriented mindset of the bloody government. I am keeping my eye on you and the division,” he added, brandishing the bat at him. “I want you to rethink this budget plan very carefully for the next quarter, do you understand me?”

Fat chance. Goblins were going to take up all the damned time again, Registry would be pushed back as sure as anything. Not that he really cared, the public only cared about the Registry when it failed to do something it wasn’t equipped to do. Twiddle resisted the urge to shrug. “Sure,” he said. 

“Good,” Newt said, turning and leaving the office and with a “good day” to Nancy at the desk, leaving the Registry.

Twiddle sat back in his chair again, and rubbed his forehead. It wasn’t even noon yet. He pulled his hand away and saw Nancy in the doorway, fidgeting. “What is it, Nancy?”

“Um, well, Mr. Twiddle, you said that I should speak to you today – well, yesterday you said tomorrow, but that was today – that is, is now a good time to talk about giving my two weeks’ notice?” she asked.

He sighed. “Sure. Come in.”

~*~

The werewolf, Briony, seemed unamused, but Alecto had her pegged as a brat from the start. She wasn't from Fenrir's pack, which made putting up with her during the travel actually worse; Fenrir’s pack was wonderfully obedient and quiet, after all. After a quick Apparation and a long walk, they finally came near to the town where Curenton foolishly set up his Den. "Do you know your way around, little werewolf, or do you hate wizards too much to even comprehend their geography?" Alecto wondered.

Briony became even more irritated with the witch, if that was at all possible. She'd been hoping that the further they got from Fenrir's pack the less annoying she'd be, but that sadly did not seem to end up as the case. "I know where the Den is," she answered shortly.

Alecto should have backed off, as they were due to be working together for an extended period of time, but she couldn't resist. "Oh, do you? Are you one of the tamed werewolves, then? I did think that your Conor was a touch too soft to be a _real_ werewolf."

She wanted to tell her to shut her mouth, as at this rate she’d likely kill Fenrir's wand before they even made it to the Den. "I didn't say I'd been there," she said tersely. "I said I knew where it was."

If Fenrir hadn't threatened her with death against killing the bitch, Briony would be dead, she decided. She turned her glare away and looked towards the hills. "There," she said, pointing towards the house on the hill with some glee. " _There._ Let's get a start on this so we can just get back home with the brat."

That was something they could agree on, at least -- not that Briony would have ever said that out loud. They climbed the hill and approached the house, and she wondered how the witch would fare in a group of werewolves whose sense of pack and niceties was somewhat limited. She stopped to glance into a window before going to the door. "So this is the Den," she murmured.

"Here it is. Curious, isn't it, just like any other pack house, but no pack." Alecto put away her wand. "All right then, I suppose we'd best go in and find him." She raised her eyebrows. "You're about his age, aren't you? It shouldn't be too hard for you to lure him out."

"About there, I guess," Briony said, not certain she liked the implications of that statement. She pulled the door open and walked right in. She looked around, sticking her head into the main room. A small group of werewolves sat around a table, but they didn't concern themselves with her. Their wolves felt... different. Excitable, but not in a good way. Their control was lacking. She looked back at Alecto, who had followed in mild amusement, and shrugged.

Owen heard the door to the Den open, but didn't check immediately. He thought Jeremy might go, but when he looked up he saw his son engrossed in one of his legal philosophy tomes, tipped back on the back legs of a chair with his feet up on the corner of the desk. 

With a slight sigh, he pushed back his chair and went to his office door, which was half-closed. Opening it revealed two young women standing in the foyer. "Hello," he said to them.

Startled, Alecto turned to him, tucking her now dark hair behind her ears nervously. "Hello -- we've got to the Den, haven't we?"

He looked at the two of them, at the one who spoke to him paying close attention and the other seemed to be looking anywhere but at him. Nervous, perhaps, but that wasn't exactly uncommon. "Yes, you have," Owen answered, leaving the office completely. "What can I do for you?"

"We were just looking for somewhere to stay, it's been a long trip and, well, it's too close to the full moon for us to go anywhere else, you know?" Alecto smiled sadly. "If they'd even take us. Is there room?"

Briony looked at her sharply. She didn't have a wolf, there wasn't a person in this house who was going to be fooled at that level. She looked back at Owen. _Don't be fooled,_ she silently warned him, but there wasn't a way to do so verbally. "Yes. That's what we're looking for," she said.

Owen nodded. "Well, we do have room," he said. "Ropes are pretty easy to learn, here. No drinking or gambling, use your common sense. There's not usually trouble in the house."

"And I don't suppose there's any place in town for me to stay." Alecto twirled her wand idly, and tucked it behind her ear. "I'm looking after Briony -- " she gestured to her -- "after all, best to be wary around most wizards these days, don't you think, with the, ah, popular sentiment?" She made a face.

Of course. Briony was forced to reassess the witch, looking at her carefully for a moment before she looked back at Owen and forced a smile.

"Indeed," Owen agreed. "If you head into the village there's a... bed and breakfast sort of place at the other end of the high street. I don't know that business has been particularly well lately, what with the war on and all, but you could look into it."

Jeremy glanced around the doorway, still carrying the heavy legal philosophy book. "New arrivals?" he asked, mostly rhetorically. "It's been slow." He eyed the wand sticking out of the brunette's hair.

"Well, one," Owen replied, stepping aside to let Jeremy into the conversation. "It sounds as though -- Briony, was it? -- will be staying with us for a time."

"Yes." Briony looked at the boy in the doorway. That had to be the Curenton boy that Fenrir so desperately wanted. His hair was dark where Owen’s was light, but otherwise he was a dead ringer for his father.

"Well, welcome and all," Jeremy leaned over to set the book down on the floor. "If you need anything, have any questions, I'm usually around. I'm Jeremy." He stuck his hand out to her.

Alecto looked between the two and paused, as though realising. "Oh, you're Owen Curenton! Could I, erm, could I speak to you for a minute? Briony, do you mind if I just go ahead and...?"

Briony looked back at her, her hand still clasped in Jeremy's. She kept her wolf carefully restrained and guarded, and found it unnecessary. She dropped Jeremy's hand and said, "Al -- I don't know if that's such a good -- "

"Jeremy can show you around," Owen said, looking back at Jeremy, "and I imagine -- your friend will see you before she leaves. I'm sorry that I don't think I caught your name?" He looked at Alecto.

"Alexandra, but you can call me Alex." Alecto tucked her hands behind her back, a bit shyly. "So -- well, I've read your book, Mr Curenton -- "

Jeremy grinned at that, but looked to Briony with as much curiosity as he considered polite. "Well. If you want the tour, or at least a place to put your things, come on. Briony, right?"

Briony hesitated again. The witch talked too much, and she didn't like the idea of not being there to hear whatever it was she was going to say. "Okay," she said. "Great. Grand tour while Alex here feeds your dad's ego."

"Getting on our good side immediately, I see," Owen said as he grinned. "We'll see you, grand tour shouldn't take that long."

"Not much to see, but don't let that fool you, there's things to do," Jeremy promised her. "I should know, right? I'm here every day."

"Go on, I just have a few quick questions, you know, for the book," Alecto said to Briony with a broad smile, then turned to Owen, her smile going humble.

Owen stepped back. "Well, let's step into my office..."

It took great effort on Briony's part to not roll her eyes, but she managed to hold it in. She looked back at Jeremy for a moment. "So."

"So," he echoed, and started towards the stairs. "There's the bedrooms upstairs, it's a bit of a dormitory situation, but you're likely used to that. Most of our pack werewolves don't mind. You're from a pack, right?"

"Yeah," she answered, soothing the wolf's agitation. It might be easier if she knew Conor was back with their pack instead of with Fenrir. He could more than handle himself, but not having that contact made her wary. "I mean -- yeah. I am."

She seemed agitated, and usually there was a reason for that kind of thing. He relaxed, and opened the door to the women's room. "This is where you can sleep -- across the hall, the full moon rooms. I hear this is the usual setup." He leaned against the doorway. "You can stay here as long as you need, so you know. There's more than enough space."

Briony went into the room and dropped her bag on one of the beds that appeared unoccupied. "Yeah," she said, and added a bit awkwardly, "Thanks."

"Well." Jeremy felt uncharacteristically awkward, but she was making it difficult to be casual. "You look like you've come a long way, I'll leave you be, but -- like I said. I'm always around. Nowhere else to go, really."

"I just... never saw myself coming here," she answered him honestly.

He smiled a little wryly at that. "I bet. We hear that a lot, here. People know we're here, but it's never going to be them resorting to a stop in, right? Dad prefers to think of this place as a bed and breakfast or something instead of a last resort, but I'm more realistic."

She had a pack, a Father, brothers -- family. She _didn't_ belong here. She looked up at Jeremy, still carelessly leaning in the doorway. "I didn't mean -- "

"Well -- I did," he said. "Pack is like family, and I would do anything to be with my family. I would never want to leave them."

This would be almost too easy. They couldn't screw this up, she decided. But not too soon, she needed to buy some time and keep the witch away from Fenrir. "Yeah," she agreed. "I know what you mean. Things are... they're just complicated right now."

He sent her a slight smile. "Well. Like I said, we're here for you as long as you need. You, er, want to see the rest of the place? Or you can just wander, there's no problem, hell, Dad doesn't even mind people coming into his office, really."

"Okay," she said. "Show me."

He awkwardly straightened, but kept the smile on. "Then follow me." Give the Den a few days, he knew, and they usually won over the least enthusiastic visitors. Getting Briony comfortable wouldn't be any trouble at all.

~*~

_July 1978_  
Seven years had gone by. Seven eventful and wonderful years at Hogwarts that Remus maybe should have never had the chance to have, but was blessed with all the same. Now he was a fully qualified wizard with exceptional NEWT scores under his proverbial belt, and no clear indication of what to do with himself. His mother suggested university in preparation for teaching. He’d gone over it in his head, and some parts worked. Muggles didn’t believe in werewolves, not outside of cinema or things like comic books and gothic novels, anyway, so being uncovered was unlikely. It wasn’t unheard of -- other wizards and witches had gone to university for whatever reason -- but there were always other issues related to going, attaining proper accreditation and whatnot.

It wasn’t such a terrible idea, teaching. There was something appealing about imparting and conveying knowledge about anything and everything to children, not always eager to learn but unable to prevent some bits of information from sticking. Muggles, of course, would have required a degree. Wizards only liked a wide knowledge base, although given his condition (the wolf jumped again, it despised that word), it wasn’t likely he’d keep any job for long. People always eventually put two and two together. With that in his mind, he sent letters of inquiry to any place he thought he could have a chance in.

Unfortunately, until something came through, there was precious little for him to do but sit and wait. Waiting was not one of the wolf's favourite things to do, another thing that Remus knew well. Remus was usually able to keep it under a sort of control, but that had been at school when there was always something to do and something to keep his mind busy. Now it seemed even more restless and willful, irritating Remus himself. Physically alone in the house but being mentally accompanied wasn't any picnic either, he reflected, moving from one room to the next.

Then the detection ward sounded, registering only minimally in Remus's brain. It was less sensitive than it once was, after his mother complained enough about rabbits and field mice traipsing through the yard. Even he had to admit his annoyance, no matter what his father's intentions had been. Now he had to wonder if he hadn't been right, as he checked through the curtains of the sitting room. His stomach clenched when he saw the cloaked man walking up the front pathway.

His heart was beating wildly in his chest when the knock came. He instinctively drew his wand, and tried to make for the Floo grate in the kitchen.

_Door,_ the wolf seemed to compel him. Not even compel -- demand.

Remus stopped with his hand on the doorknob. This was not what he should do. He should back away and Floo somewhere else, tell someone. Instead, one effortless turn of his wrist opened the door of the Lupin home to Fenrir Greyback.

Fenrir's first reaction was surprise. The boy looked like a wizard, trim, well-fed, and overconfident, but it was still the Remus he’d named years ago. He took a moment to compose himself before drawing his hood back. "Remus," he said, with a faint smile. "Let your Father in, like a good son, yes?"

Remus could only respond to the request with a blank look and silence, but the wolf's reaction was so immediate and violent that it caused him to pale, and he gripped the side of the door until his knuckles were white. Perhaps more frightening still was the only thing he could come up with to describe the wolf's sudden burst of… _joy._

_Finally. It's you._

Fenrir genuinely smiled and stepped past him, gently pushing him aside and looking around the house. The edges of his smile hardened into a sneer. "Is Alexander home? Close the door."

So immediately that he didn't even think about it, Remus pushed the door closed and he flinched when the latch clicked. "Dad's not -- he's not here," he answered, hurriedly correcting himself without knowing why. "You need to go. Really." The wolf would not let him beg for it further.

Fenrir took a slow breath and nearly trembled at the feeling of pack along their tie. This boy was his, there was no denying that. "If I leave, Remus, you're coming with me." At that, he set his eyes upon Remus's and seized him along the tie as his Father taught him years ago.

It was a double, amazingly clear assault on his senses. His wolf was... it was _cringing,_ in pain, but still eager. This was something new, and definitely frightening. His back hit the door and he rested there, his breath coming shorter and shorter. "Who _are_ you?" he managed to get out.

Fenrir looked at him and felt _old,_ experienced, and proud. "I was named Fenrir by my Father, but the newspapers call me Fenrir Greyback. You might have heard of me," he added, with a smirk. "They mention me a bit."

Now Remus really felt like being sick, but the wolf kept him silent, wanting its Father. Its will was overcoming his, and he didn't like it at all. He fought against it. "You have to go. Please, just -- "

Fenrir saw the struggle in his tensed shoulders and his eyes, and grabbed Remus by the shoulders roughly. "Remus," he snapped. "You're no wizard, you've never been, you belong with my pack. Soon you won't be able to resist, you'll have no choice in the matter. You are a werewolf -- you can’t deny the wolf or your pack."

Underneath his clothing, Remus's skin began to crawl and he struggled to find a reaction he could give, would be allowed to give. He didn't know _anything,_ it now seemed. "I don't -- you must have the wrong -- " The wrong what? Teenaged werewolf? He couldn’t be right. There were so many reasons he just couldn’t be. "I'm not who you think I am," he protested quietly.

Fenrir stared down at him, fingernails pressing into Remus's shoulders. "Alexander Lupin," he sneered. "Your birth father. Hasn't he told you? Reminded you, at least? You were young. I had to make you mine to save you from what he would turn you into. He stole you from me, but you were still mine, I claimed you, and you belong with me and my pack. You know this."

"He hasn't done anything." Remus winced, twisting under Fenrir’s hands. "I'm not -- it was an accident, it had to be," he continued, too far gone to stop himself from talking now.

Fenrir began to smile, then laughed, not quite happily. "That's what you said then," he said. "In fourteen years, we've both come so far. Will you stay here, then, with these wizards who loathe the very idea of what you are? Or with the only ones who can understand you, with your pack?"

"I can't -- I can't just _go._ " He was becoming even more panicked, if that was at all possible. He could hardly just up and go with a stranger who came to the door, and he certainly wasn't going to go with a criminal, no matter what he said happened or was supposedly meant to be to him.

Fenrir released him, and took a step back to examine his son with something that almost resembled paternal pride. "You're clever, I can tell," he informed his son. "So you'll understand that this... this was your birth father, the wizard, this was his idea. To lock you and your wolf away and pretend as though you aren't what you are. He doesn't understand. Well... we do, and we all accept what we are, Remus. We relish it, because it's what's right."

It felt like the wolf was banging against the insides of his skull, more awake and unrestrained than Remus ever remembered it being. It understood, it _agreed_ with Fenrir Greyback. He did his best to ignore it. "I have a life." Or, he would, at least. Time was all it would take. "I can't," he repeated.

Fenrir watched the wolf in his first son's eyes. Of course, it made too much sense. "It's violent, isn't it? Restless. You always end up bit and scratched and bloody. He's locked it away," he hissed. "You're locking it away for the wizards' sake and locking it inside yourself. Do you want to live every transformation for the rest of your life like that?"

"Nothing is, we're fine," he said, now angry with Fenrir and angry with himself, insofar as the wolf was him. It was a blatant lie, and they all knew it, but he could not do this. "You just -- you need to go." His wand! ... His wand was laying on the ground, a few feet away, he must have dropped it. He couldn't reach for it, he reached for the closet doorknob instead, grasping it firmly.

Fenrir felt the immediate flush of disdained fury and seized the boy's wand. "They're pathetic," he spat at Remus. "They need words and wands and potions to get them out of every situation. Rob them of that, and they have nothing." He snapped the wand entirely in half, throwing the pieces to the ground. "Is that all you are, Remus, a wand-waving coward?" He turned away, towards the door, forcing himself to leave. "If you can even change your mind, you... brainwashed would-be wizard, you'll be able to find my pack if you try."

" _Leave,_ " Remus said emphatically, but it came out more a plea than an order, as he'd hoped. Some wild, reserved part of his brain idly wondered how he was going to explain a snapped wand, but the rest had to deal with the wolf, increasingly unhappy that his -- its _Father_ was leaving.

Fenrir grabbed the doorknob and tore the door open, slamming it against the opposite wall. "Werewolves weren't welcome here, everyone knows that," he pronounced. "At least, not until I saved you, but I didn't finish the job. This isn't a life, what you've got. Pack is how things should be, must be. But Alexander was selfish and chose a wizard's life for you." He leaned against the doorway, with a wry smile. "If you had the choice, would this be what you want?"

He yanked the hood over his head, only then making his way back down the walk, on the way to his loyal pack. Soon, they would have one, two, _many_ more, just as his Father predicted.

Remus fell into the wall, feeling like his heart was about to fly out of his chest at any second. He clenched his eyes shut and willed his legs to stop shaking so badly. It was more unnerving that the wolf had gone silent again, silent in an _I'm_ -not- _speaking-to-you_ sort of way.

That was fine. The wolf had just done more speaking than it had ever done in fourteen years and he was lightheaded from it. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze fell on the broken pieces of his wand. He regarded them dispassionately for a moment, before he swallowed a cry rising in his throat and picked both of them up. A wand could easily be replaced, it was just an object, but something else had been broken, something that Remus wasn't sure could be fixed so easily.

~*~

The first thing that Remus did on the day after Fenrir Greyback’s intrusion was gather the last bit of whatever money he had and gone to Ollivander’s to replace his wand. His new wand was eight inches long, birch wood, with a phoenix tailfeather for its core. This was no surprise, since the wand that Fenrir Greyback had snapped in two had the same core and wood. Despite Mr. Ollivander’s assurances that accidents happened and sometimes getting a new wand was a blessing, a better fit than the old one, even, Remus was left unnerved and disconnected. It was frightening how easily and quickly it had happened.

Fenrir Greyback’s words had made their mark in his brain. _Let your Father in, like a good son… You were mine, I claimed you… That’s what you said then…_

What ‘then’? Remus couldn’t remember a when. He barely remembered a time when he wasn’t transforming during the full moon, and he didn’t remember when he’d been bitten. He knew a date, but no event. There was only ‘werewolf’ and a very short, young span of memory that was ‘not werewolf’. No memory of the time that Fenrir Greyback -- _Fenrir Greyback_ \-- thought existed was in his brain. Remus didn’t like it. This went beyond his natural tendency towards finding answer and reason; the fact that there was an apparent hole in his memory bothered him like it never had before. They’d never spoken of it; it had never mattered.

The wolf’s recalcitrant silence was only a temporary reprieve. It had seen its Father (the wolf’s word, not his, how could he ever?) and become emboldened, even arrogant. There was nothing Remus did that the wolf didn’t protest or keep calm over. It plagued him unlike it had ever been before. To top it all off, a week passed without a single reply to any of his inquiries. The wolf rejoiced as though it was karma, or some sort of divine retribution, to Remus for its suppression all these years.

“Stop it,” he told it one day, right out loud, and looking his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was a moment where he saw it -- something -- moving behind his eyes, and he felt it dangerously close to the surface. Was that what other people saw when they looked at him? Could people really tell just by looking at you what you were? The idea frightened him, made him ill, but pleased the wolf.

His mother was beginning to notice that Remus was not himself, and the concerned glances and questions were almost more than he could bear. His father, however, noticed nothing, or if he had, he said nothing. Remus couldn’t help but think, a little bitterly, that was hardly unusual for his father. He always stopped himself after that. He had wonderful parents, he had gone to Hogwarts, what did he have to complain about? Whenever Remus looked at his father, long glances when he wasn’t looking and quick, short ones when he was, he couldn’t fathom anything that could have possibly offended the elder werewolf so deeply. He had to be wrong.

_But you don’t know that,_ was the constant argument thrown back in his face. He didn’t know for sure.

He had no plan of attack on how to approach the subject. How could he? It wasn’t something that came up in conversation. One attempt ended up with them in the study talking about something horribly vague, like whether it was supposed to rain or not that night, one of the most horridly awkward conversations that Remus had ever had, and there had been plenty of those in the last eighteen years.

In the end, the full moon came and it was one of the worst transformations Remus could remember. The wolf was excited and wanted out, almost on a sensory overload. He awoke in the shed that looked like any other tool shed from the outside, used for his transformations while he was at home. He felt the usual sickness all over, stronger than it had been in ages, left tired and bleeding from the head. He slowly and carefully made his way into the house once he was clothed, and his mother’s jaw dropped and she dropped the plate she had been drying. It shattered with a head-splitting _crash._ “Oh, _Remus_ …”

“You dropped a plate, mum,” he said a bit stupidly, and collapsed in a chair.

“Never mind the plate,” she replied, immediately getting a dishcloth and wetting it with water.

By the time his dad got home from work, his mother was in a full tilt tizzy because he wouldn’t go to the wizarding hospital, and wouldn’t let her take him to the Muggle hospital not too far away, even though it clearly needed stitches at the very least. As she gave him tea, she angrily muttered something about being just like his father. 

Remus wasn’t in a great mood either, because she hadn’t let him go to sleep for fear of a concussion, and he ended up in his father’s study for monitoring. “You fix him,” Nichole spat at her husband once he’d arrived at home, nearly shoving him inside -- clearly upset, which hurt Remus more than the severest head wound. The study door slammed behind Alexander, and father and son could hear their wife, their mother dash up the stairs and away from the both of them.

Alexander had long been healing whatever wounds his son managed to inflict on himself while transformed, making this almost routine, but neither moved for the longest time. Remus sat and waited for his father, who seemed thrown off by Nichole’s reaction, until he broke the silence when he said, “Up here, then,” to Remus.

Remus pulled himself out of the armchair and sluggishly moved to the edge of the desk as Alexander summoned his book of first aid charms. He wondered how many times he’d seen it, laying open on the desk, just like this. “Let me see,” Alexander said gently.

He pulled off the cloth that his mother had insisted be pressed there, looking at his father’s tie instead of into his face. “What did you do?” Alexander asked, flipping a page in the book.

_I was transformed and trying to run through a wall,_ was the reflexive and painfully truthful answer. Remus himself had no real will to answer, but the wolf was ready and quick to be snappish -- its annoyance and full-blooded _hate_ of Alexander had certainly not faded. If anything it held a renewed contempt. “What did _you_ do?” he asked in return.

“Sorry, what?” was Alexander’s distracted answer. “This is a smaller charm, but it should work here. I don’t think you’ll be doing anything to reopen the wound, will you?”

The rhetorical questions were irritating. “No.” He felt the charm take effect; the skin on his forehead cooled momentarily, and it did feel better. But he couldn’t do this again. It was unbearable, and he finally repeated his question. “What did you do?”

“What did I do when?” Remus could feel his father building the wall again, which meant that he had something to hide.

He couldn’t back away from this one. “I was bit. He said that you did something.” His head was still hurting and he felt like he was making very little sense.

There was no mask on Alexander Lupin’s face now. Remus looked up at him and saw a man who was frightened of something. “Who told you that? Who said it?”

“Fenrir Greyback,” he uttered emotionlessly. He still hadn’t completely wrapped his mind around the fact that he had been there.

Alexander’s hand tightened on his son’s shoulder, as if he had suddenly been rocked violently. Remus supposed he had; fine, it was his turn anyway. “He was here and you told no one?”

“He was telling the truth?” he demanded in return, ignoring his father’s question.

He hesitated to make a reply, but knew that he had to say something. "You have to understand," he started, "this is… it was my fault, and never should have happened. Adults -- " he stopped. He’d been the only adult in this mess, with Remus so young and Fenrir no more than half the age Remus was now -- still in his mind dirty-faced and yelling that Remus was his. "It just never should have happened," he finished tightly, taking the book back to its place on the shelf.

“You’re not answering me,” he said.

Alexander was still facing the bookcase behind the desk when he began to speak. “I offended him. Spoke words that I shouldn’t have, and he took them to heart and committed a crime. Then, they came to claim you.”

“Claim,” Remus answered flatly.

“Claim. They came here to take you away from us.”

Remus’s visceral reaction to that was dread. Away to where? The idea hurt a little, but not nearly so much as it might have once. There was still nothing, just vestiges of memories, parts he could glimpse, but he couldn’t get the whole thing. The wolf was not interested in what his human could remember, however. “I still don’t know what happened. I remember… I remember mum being with me, upstairs. After.”

Alexander looked back to Remus. “If that’s all that you remember, then you should be grateful. That night is not one that any of us should be forced to relive. Downright horrific.”

With those words, it was the oddest thing ever. It was as if his father had pulled him back from the keyhole, and turned a key to open the door. His expression must have changed, because Alexander’s did as well. “What is it?” he asked.

"He came in." Remus’s throat was very dry. "He came in, and -- " The memories, absent as they were only seconds ago, came back in full, terrible force. The hand over his mouth as he was told not to scream, the yard underneath his feet slick and wet with dew, the terror, the bite itself, and the hazy trip back in the early morning light. He was overwhelmed.

“Owen Curenton was the one who brought you home, but he also said that you were – named.” His tongue tripped over the words that he hadn’t thought about for years. It had meant little to him, he’d had his son back and that was all that counted.

A name. Remus couldn’t honestly say that he knew what it was, but it sounded right, and felt real. _Pack is how things should, must be,_ the wolf echoed at him. A wizard’s life had been chosen for him. For _them._ “You kept this from me.” He slid off the desk and walked, to the window, away from the window, around the desk in an erratic pattern, just needing to take the edge off the agitation he was feeling. He eyed his father, waiting for an answer.

“What would the benefit have been?” he asked. “Who’s to say things would have been better? You were ours, _mine_ , not his. I wasn’t going to give you up.”

The breadth of the room wasn’t enough anymore. It was stifling, he wanted to run and be away from here. “I have to go,” he said suddenly, moving for the door.

“Go where?” Alexander demanded.

“Away. Gone.” The wolf didn’t care, it didn’t care that he wanted to stay in his house, with his parents, it wanted to find elsewhere, maybe with its parent. Totally selfish, and totally in control.

Alexander stopped Remus with a hand on his arm, a tight grip that held no malice but all urgency. “Don’t go to him.” It wasn’t a plea or an order, too calm to be either. It confused even Remus, and most powerfully angered the wolf.

“DON’T TOUCH ME,” he yelled, and immediately completely regretted it. He wasn’t a yeller, and had certainly never raised his voice at either of his parents. Alexander slowly removed his hand, either having nothing more to say or unable to say anything. Remus didn’t quite trust himself to speak, he felt as though his voice might break and that would be it.

He moved past his father and made it to the door until Alexander said in a last ditch attempt to get him to stay, “Remus.” He remained; it was so jarring, he could not remember the last time that his father had used his name.

He didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt as if his heart were in his throat, his stomach where his heart should be, everything else jumbled up and where it shouldn’t be, and why shouldn’t he? Everything had just changed. He turned around to look at Alexander, and he couldn't help but sound small and hurt when he spoke. “I told -- I _told_ him that he was wrong, that you hadn’t done anything. Twice.”

Remus had never seen his father look so old, or so guilty. “I made my bed, and then I had to lie in it. I’m sorry that I had to bring you and your mother down as well.”

He didn’t want to hear more. His feet were moving away. Out the front door, down the steps, and into the yard. It was so disturbingly close to the night he’d been dragged from his bed and taken in retribution for mere words. He turned to look back at the house, lights shining in the windows even in the sunset light of the summer evening. He saw his mother’s face in the upstairs window, his parents’ bedroom. She merely looked at him, a bit sadly. For a moment, even the wolf seemed to falter. It liked his mother, inexplicably, although that was something to be thankful for. She was comforting, and calm, and as much of a victim in this as Remus.

Even so, it wasn’t enough to make him stay. Nothing would have been enough. He kept walking, but to where? _Not to the pack,_ he sternly told the wolf. To a friend, any friend. He Disapparated as soon as he was able. At the very least, James and Lily would have a couch he could occupy until he had an idea of what to do with himself.


	9. Out of the Frying Pan

_The crone’s mouth twitched, her eyes flashed red. She shrieked_  
Her laugh and made her curse; with one vile look  
At Bram grinned she, “My lad, your straits are dire,  
You’ve fallen from the pan and in the fire.”  
\-- “Deirdre, Bram, and the Curse of Seven Centuries,” from _Early Magical Literature,_ in a 1912 translation from its original Irish.

 _August 1978_  
More than ever, Elliot Pittiman questioned his choice of career. A decade of his life was spent in the Experimental Charms Committee, a job full of late nights and trips to St Mungo’s to get antlers removed and turn his hair from cotton-candy pink back to its natural greying blond, until he heard tell of the Werewolf Registry’s need for a on-loan charmsworker. A job with fewer hours, less danger, and a better likelihood of actual retirement as well as more time with his three children before they entered Hogwarts was a tempting prospect. Charlotte gave him enough trouble about not being around enough for her liking, anyway, and his children did deserve a father. 

In retrospect, the plan was too good to be true. The Werewolf Registry, a controlled environment with predictable paperwork and no surprises, was too much to hope for. Werewolves. There was a reason people said they were cursed. 

Today marked his tenth trip to Owen Curenton’s Den, something he did not look forward to. Each trip there was worse than the last, with the miserable and angry werewolves who bitched and complained and glared at him like it was somehow his fault that the Ministry chose to reach out to them. Really, he was starting to think that the werewolves deserved even less recognition than they currently got. 

Most days, Pittiman just did the _Prophet_ crossword, pretended to keep his eye on the map, and hoped that he wouldn’t get orders from either the Death Eaters or Twiddle. He really ought to’ve known, he thought as he walked through the small Welsh town, past the quaint little houses. Of all the things he’d chosen to get involved with, he had to choose the one the Death Eaters would focus in on as well. 

At least the nightmares about his family, violated, bloody and throats shredded to bits, were starting to fade, replaced with dreams about Twiddle’s new secretary and her desk. Definitely an improvement. 

He stopped, hesitated really, at the house he knew was the Curentons’. He honestly considered going up the walk, knocking at the door, and telling whoever answered that they were wasting their time. Bleeding-hearts could reach out to the werewolves with the best of intentions, but the werewolves were stubborn beasts, and the Death Eaters were bound to win. After nearly a decade of terror, that much was clear. The struggle between the Ministry and the Death Eaters was less a war than a prolonged, sadistic game of cat and mouse. 

“There’s no point,” he said aloud, and stared at the house. There was a garden, flowers on the windowsill, just like any of the quaint little houses in a quaint little village, but this one housed the family that had, with their good intentions, incidentally unleashed Fenrir Greyback onto the world and into the hands of the Death Eaters. 

Finally he got out a bit of parchment, a pencil, and picked up a rock from the walk. _Give it up, bleeding-hearts, you haven’t got a chance,_ he scribbled, charmed the parchment to the rock, and chucked it at the window. The minute it shattered the kitchen window, he began to walk again at a brisk pace as though he’d seen nothing. 

Another item on the growing list of disturbing things about his life – it only grew easier each day to walk away from the scene of a crime and consider himself innocent. 

“Elliot! I didn’t know you had that in you.” 

The Curentons’ house was still in sight, but he stopped, stunned and frightened out of his mind, until the young woman caught up to him with her skipping gait and laughed aloud. He could already feel her mocking gaze on him; he knew that laugh. 

He turned to look and – the face was right, almost, but her eyes were too dark and her hair was mousy, curly. Her nose was all wrong, her hair wasn’t the bundle of unwashed, straw-coloured hair, and most importantly, the pale, bright eyes of Alecto Carrow weren’t staring him into submission. But that smile, that curiously wicked look like Anna’s old tomcat set on its prey, that was her. 

“You – you’re here?” he asked, lost for words. 

“Of course I’m here!” Alecto flashed him a smile and began to walk again, gesturing for him to follow. “It’s good to see you again, it’s been ages, hasn’t it? Expect you’ve been in contact with our mates, though. We have such great plans in store.” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” he answered her, following. He had no other option. Fenrir Greyback was the most terrifying person he’d ever met, but Alecto Carrow was a close second, her brother an even closer third. “I’m just on my way to the Den. I’m surprised to see you here.” 

She gave him an affectionate slap on the shoulder. “I’m doing a bit of research. Learning what I can from and about the Curentons, and what they do, who they know, who’s visiting the Den – oh, let me come with you, I’m on my way there myself, obviously.” 

Long walks in Wales with Death Eaters. His life was so absurd at times. “Really,” he said, to say something. 

“Really! You know, the Curentons are fearless,” she said, thoughtful, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Even though they’re as vulnerable, if not more, after all they’ve been through, they still fight the good fight without a fearful thought that things could get worse. Or maybe they just don’t care! Wouldn’t be a surprise. Remarkable,” she concluded, with a fine imitation of admiration. 

What worse could be _done,_ he wondered, and to what end? Hadn’t they played their part in the Death Eaters’ story? “They are remarkable people,” he said, neutral. 

“I’m so glad we agree. Don’t we?” She turned to him, her expression critical. 

Pittiman nodded without hesitation. “Of course. Complete agreement.” 

Alecto tapped her chin thoughtfully. “So if I ask for a bit of help,” she supposed, “you’ll chip in? We have a new friend, you see, someone who could bring unwelcome attention, and it’s just the sort of thing you’d be able to help us with.” 

Oh. He sighed, and went on quickly as she eyed him again. “I’ll – I’ll come up as soon as I can, no problem at all.” 

She smirked, then laughed, and he felt like the mouse being batted back and forth, because supper hadn’t managed to piss his pants yet. “Not that your enthusiasm isn’t appreciated,” she said, “but just wait for the post. Spend the weekend with your wife and kids – Tim’s growing into a very clever boy, I think, don’t you?” 

And there he was in their little game of cat and mouse, pinned to the ground, unable to breathe. “You, ah – you stopped by? I must have missed you.” 

“Mmhmm.” Alecto strode ahead. “Oh, and your Charlotte’s pretty, too, isn’t she? And little Anna, practically a duplicate, just as lovely. You’re a lucky man. I haven’t got anything like that to go home to at the end of the day. I’d do _anything_ to keep something precious like that together, personally.” 

Pittiman couldn’t believe how stupid he was to relax in the first place, because now his terror was back in full force. He half-jogged to catch up to her, in hopes of stopping this train of thought. “I’m doing everything I can,” he said. “Everything and anything.” 

“Good on you. You’re a good man,” she complimented with a bright smile and a flick at his nose. The Den was in sight – still a good distance away, but she stopped him and pointed at it. “Look at that. It’s just a regular old house, rickety and falling apart, nothing special. Ready to be torn down, nearly, but the Curentons… well, they’ve made it something special. Something worth notice.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Remarkable,” she repeated. 

“Remarkable,” he echoed, weakly, and looked at the house. He had never really noticed how old and weak it was, as old and weak as the Curentons’ cause itself. 

“Well, I’ll see you about, I’m sure. Soon, if we’re lucky! Keep up the good work.” Alecto kissed him on the cheek and abruptly Disapparated. 

Pittiman released the breath he’d been holding and tried to shake off the nausea that had threatened to rise since he’d first heard her voice and her vicious little laugh. He sank to his knees and drew in slow breath after slow breath until the terror subsided to the point where he could stand, and resume the devil’s work. His mother’s trite sayings had some truth after all – idle hands, it seemed, really were free to be seized as the devil’s playground.

~*~

Damocles Belby considered himself a smart man. He was a Ravenclaw by house, which marked him as intelligent. He was a Healer with a specialty in creature-induced injuries and a leading Potions researcher. There were a lot of things he knew for certain, and could understand, but one he was sure he never would was what possessed certain parents to let their children play with certain magical creatures.

“Doxy bites,” he said, squeezing the small bite marks on the boy’s arms. The boy whimpered slightly and moved to scratch them, but Damocles caught his hand and put it back in his lap with a stern look. “No scratching,” he told him, and turned to the boy’s mother. “We’ll give him the antidote and keep him overnight to make sure it’s not worse, although he should be fine.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a tired, thankful smile. “We have a little doxy problem in a shed in our backyard, I’ve told him time and time again he’s not allowed back there.” Her tone became sterner as she glanced to her son, who looked appropriately contrite.

“It happens, the important thing is that you brought him as soon as you found them,” Damocles replied, trying not to seem amused. “The trainee Healer will get him set up with the antidote and get you the paperwork necessary for checking in overnight.”

The mother repeated her thanks as he left the room, and he handed the file off to Shelly, one of two Trainee Healers currently on the floor. “Treat him for doxy bites and check him in for overnight observation.”

Shelly inhaled sharply through her teeth in sympathy. “Poor kid, those things hurt like the dickens.”

“Perhaps the parents will now do something about what is apparently a doxy infestation in their backyard,” he answered dryly.

Shelly spoke up as he went for the door. “There’s a man in your office.” 

Interesting. Damocles stopped in his tracks and turned back around to look at her. “A man in my office,” he prompted.

“Yes, very peculiar, and he wouldn’t leave, either,” she added, obviously perturbed by this.

“Thanks, I’ll take care of it,” he said, turning back around and continuing to his office. He already knew who was waiting there, and as he pushed the door to his office open, he found that he was right. Owen Curenton was sitting in the chair behind the desk, leaned back with his feet propped up on the desk itself, reading _Herbology Quarterly_ as if the office were his. “What did I tell you about waiting in my office and scaring the Trainee Healers?” he asked with one eyebrow quirked.

Owen pretended to think about it for a second, putting the journal down. “Don’t use my celebrity and fame to gain entrance and win friends among the staff?” he tried facetiously.

“Right, but the words I used were ‘if you must, simply say you’re waiting for me’,” Damocles said. “Can I have my chair?”

“Fine, you sit, I’ll pace,” Owen conceded, putting his feet down and hopping up from the chair with surprising agility.

“Wear a hole in my floor and I’m going to let you fall right through,” Damocles deadpanned as he slid through the narrow space between Owen and the desk to dive into his chair.

“It’s a nice chair. I’d figure that the Head of a floor would have a bigger office, though,” he said, looking through the makeshift shelves that held some rather rare and legally controlled potions ingredients.

“He does. Two doors down,” Damocles replied dryly, and made himself comfortable in the chair all the same.

“Mm,” Owen murmured. “So much for being rewarded for one’s hard work, eh?”

“You tell me, you’re the Hufflepuff.” He reached for the post that was neatly stacked on the corner of his desk, and pushed down the twinge of guilt at the reminder of the offer that had been extended to him. A major potions project, exactly what he’d always wanted.

“If everyone worked hard, there’d be nothing remarkable about workaholics,” he said, picking up a vial, reading the label, and putting it back down. “Brighid insists you come for dinner and insisted I carry the message.”

Damocles took a parchment out of the top drawer of the desk, and held it up. “Oh, believe me, I got it. Brighid writes with a fervor that…” He regarded the letter and Brighid’s quick, tidy script contemplatively. “Well. Frankly, it rivals your own. But hers is easier to read.”

“Amazing, isn’t it? I think she might actually write _faster_ than I do,” Owen said with a lopsided grin.

“How is everyone?” he asked very quickly after a pause of considerable length. After the events of two winters past, it was such a loaded question with any number of not exactly pleasant responses, but he wouldn’t know anything if he didn’t ask. The Curentons had always been self-contained, and having its youngest member ripped away from them had done nothing but encourage that.

Owen had to consider the question just as carefully. It still felt like a half-truth to give the generic answer of “fine”, and he was nothing if not truthful. “We’re all... all right,” he conceded slowly. Satisfied with that answer, Damocles tore open a memo and he continued. “Brighid is the same as always, and Jeremy’s back to teenaged angst compounded by condition and the fact that we keep him at home. I can’t really blame him, but things are… well, they are what they are,” he concluded. “He’ll probably go back to sneaking out as a standby now, his girlfriend’s gone back to school. Less to do, and all.”

“Wait, a girlfriend?” Damocles interjected, eyes flickering up from the parchment. “Why am I not informed of these things?”

“I wouldn’t start writing a toast,” was the droll reply. “They’re seventeen.” _With a whole mess of laws in their way if that’s what they eventually decide they want._

“Weren’t we all, once,” he sighed wistfully, leaning onto his desk. “Do you see much of her? What’s she like?”

“Jeremy’s fairly vigilant about keeping us separate,” he said, admittedly amused by the conversation. He took a comfortable seat in a chair on the other side of the desk meant for a visitor. “I have met her, though. She’s a lovely girl. Beats him at football, that sort of thing.”

“That being what you look for in a girlfriend these days.”

“Right,” he said. “She’s been a very good friend to Jeremy, besides. That’s most important.” He paused. “She always seems... I’m not sure. I guess… what really counts is that Jeremy depends on her to a certain degree. And he can and should, I think.”

“Right,” Damocles said. He made a decision in that moment and began, “I’ve been offered the opportunity to head a potions research team. Full funding by the Ministry, chance to choose my own team, the whole deal.”

There was more to this, Damocles was gauging his reaction, and there was an unspoken question that Owen didn’t quite trust. “Congratulations,” he said, at least able to give his oldest friend that much. “What of it?”

“They’re looking to fund a potion that will… essentially allow a werewolf to keep their human mind while transformed,” he said. “I’m not sure how it’s going to work yet, but… well, that’s what I get to figure out.”

“They won’t like it, whatever it is,” he said. He didn’t like it either. It reeked of bureaucracy.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, because he wouldn’t have expected any lesser reaction from Owen, but Damocles found himself somehow unprepared to answer for any of this to his friend. “If they’re allowed to keep their mind – ”

“They _have_ a mind, Damocles, transformation is not a matter of losing it or not at the full moon, it’s – did you actually _read_ the book?”

“Yes, I know, and I did.”

Owen stood and as he’d predicted earlier, began to pace slowly, running one hand over his hair. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me.” There was no question anymore, just telling and to mention it was one thing, but this was another. It felt like another. “What, do you want to make me party to this?”

“Well, no. I was only – for all your knowledge, perhaps the most of anyone living in Britain now, don’t you think you have some kind of societal obligation to share it for the greater good?” he asked.

“Where is this project coming from? Who suggested it?” Owen asked without bothering to answer Damocles’s question.

“Twiddle came and presented it to me,” he said. 

“That explains it. Twiddle wouldn’t know ethical if it walked up to him and spat on his robes.” Owen gave a derisive chortle. “He’s a bureaucrat of the worst sort, lax at best and completely apathetic at worst, sitting around waiting to retire, he…” He cut himself off with a small noise of disgust. “I don’t like it,” he concluded, deciding that he would never stop if he continued in the vein of Maldwyn Twiddle.

Damocles leaned back in his chair again. “I don’t think there’s any… _sinister_ intent here. They don’t want to drug them, they want to prevent another tragedy, like what – well, Fenrir Greyback still on the run and everything…”

“Fenrir Greyback is the _exception,_ not the rule. I don’t understand what is so difficult to understand about that.” Owen was clearly agitated now. “But I get it. If they can’t hold up Fenrir to the citizens, then they have to have something to show. Politics.”

“I guess I’m having some trouble understanding why you think this is a bad thing,” Damocles confessed after a short pause. “Terrible things like this, they’re… they’re preventable. What about Jeremy? If I never had to Heal him after he tries to run through a wall again, it’d be too soon. And Erin was – ”

He instantly regretted the words leaving his mouth, each and every last one of them, when Owen turned around and he saw the look on his face. “No, stop. If you want to do this because it’s a big chance for you and your potions passion, then do it, but do _not_ put my daughter’s name with this project. She doesn’t deserve to be made a martyr for something that she didn’t understand or have anything to do with. My family’s had all it can take.” He sank back down into the chair, unwilling – for once – to go on standing.

There was something about looking at Owen at that moment that made Damocles want to look away, and so he did. Right at a stack of files on the edge of the desk. “I shouldn’t have even mentioned her. That was terrible of me. I won’t again,” he promised.

“My children were punished because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut,” he replied, staring at the knees of his trousers. “It was… horrifically systematic. Revenge, really.”

“But you’re still talking,” Damocles said. “That’s something.”

“Something,” he echoed. He was uncharacteristically quiet for a long moment. “Jeremy’s actually doing much better. I think he’s starting to figure it out.”

“I’d figured,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “I mean. That’s a good thing, it is.”

Owen nodded, tapping his finger on the arm of the chair. “You’re not going to have a hard time getting support for this, you know. At first there will be some who say ‘That’s _all?_ ’ but they will eventually acclimate to the idea that it’s what they can get, so they’ll take it. Some will be impatient for a result, even. But you’re going to have a lot of support for this project. And you’re not going to get a say in how it gets used. Maybe if you did it by yourself, but with their backing and with their money…”

“I’d thought about that,” he said with a slow nod. Thought about it a lot, really. “What about you?”

Owen considered it for a long moment. “I’m probably going to have to fight against this once there’s something to fight against, and take a licking for it. Nothing personal.”

Damocles gave a dry smile. “I figured you’d have to.”

~*~

Things outside of school were turning out to be a bit more disappointing than Remus anticipated. He wasn't sure that he would have found that possible, but it most definitely was. There had been a job, of course -- at a bookshop in the wizarding quarter of Cardiff, a small but a fascinating one that specialized in difficult to find texts. It was only a matter of time, of course, before they found out; when they did, it was taken care of quietly. The owner had been disgustingly nice about "letting him go" and even offered to not say a word. Remus found it hard to accept that with a light smile, but he had done it.

That, combined with thoughts that had been tumbling through his head since last July, ended with Remus wandering the Welsh countryside semi-aimlessly. He found that the wolf knew known its own, almost a sixth sense for him. The pack house, in the end, was not all that difficult to find. It was away from town, it looked like someplace that one could expect to find a pack living under the radar, and it just _felt_ right.

For awhile he stood back, trying to get up the resolve to knock or... something, that was the thing to do, wasn't it? He stared at the door, until he became aware that he was being watched. When he looked, he saw a pair of eyes watching him through grimy window panes - a child who barely looked to be primary school age. They backed away (boy or girl, it was impossible to tell through the window) when Remus tried to give them a friendly smile, and he decided that it was now or never. He knocked, with a confidence that he didn't completely feel.

The knock startled Fenrir out of a quiet moment with Laurel, but since Alecto had left, they were common enough, so he sent her off. Visitors rarely brought good news, always complicated things, but he could hardly another Ministry official seeing and seizing him at the door of his own pack's house.

Laurel opened the door and stared Remus down, the wolf at the forefront of her gaze. "Who are you?" she asked, making it nearly into a challenge. "What are you doing here?"

"I - " Remus was not sure about this at all. He tried to let the wolf have a little more control, but it didn't seem sure of what to do when it did have that power. That made two of them, at least. "Is this the house of Fenrir Greyback's pack?"

Laurel's initial reaction was panic, and, forgetting the flashes of a sense of a wolf in him, she seized him by the robes. "Wizard, you should leave right now." She shoved him back and stared him down with a look that dared him to ask again. "You never saw this house and you never saw me."

Backpedaling to keep his balance, he very nearly did so. There was a part of his mind that insisted it was good advice. If nothing else, he now had an answer. "No, I'm..." He was named, had a name -- that meant something here. "I'm Remus, he knows me."

Laurel withdrew and stalked back inside after sending Remus a final hateful look. "Fenrir," she said in her most acidic tone, "Fenrir, your first son is here!"

Fenrir didn't even have to be told, as he knew the moment that Remus's wolf made itself known. Finally his first son had returned to the pack -- finally, _finally._ "Remus," he said, arriving at the door with a grin that was surprisingly genuine. "My son, you've returned."

Remus felt lightheaded, again. It was the same feeling he'd had when Fenrir had showed up at his parents' home, but not nearly as jarring. Of course it wasn't, the wolf was behaving itself despite being excited. He didn't feel ready to be physically ill. Nervous, but not nauseous. "Well, I'm here, anyway."

"As you should be. Come in." Fenrir spoke and gestured genially, the proud father displaying his life's work. "We’re mostly settled now -- Wesley is with the children or I'd have him show you around -- I could show you myself. This is temporary," he added. "We've been caught once by the Ministry but that was easily solved."

Remus certainly remembered well enough -- of course, with a scene further down the breakfast table that was hardly to be believed, it had truly stuck in his brain. "Of course," he stammered out and stepped into the house, looking around to take everything in at the wolf's behest.

"If you need anything, feel free to tell the bastards." Fenrir gestured nonchalantly to the room they passed, where a group of eight or nine werewolves talked in low voices amongst themselves. "They're not good for much else than fetching. Laurel!" he snapped.

She ran without hesitation to his side, not giving the boy beside him a second glance. "Yes, Fenrir," she said, poorly masking her desperation. "What would you -- "

He gained an unpleasant sort of smile and shut her up with a hand to her mouth. "Show Remus around. Show him his room, you know the one. Be sparing with the witch's comfort items, we must show him how pack life truly is." He yanked her towards Remus by the wrist.

Laurel stared at him and did not smile or greet in any deferential way. "Whatever you want, Fenrir," she said with a small glance to him, then spoke specifically to Remus. "Listen to me carefully, boy, because pack life is not the easy life you may be used to. Follow me."

Fenrir stopped her by seizing her shoulder hard enough to make her wince, his fingernails deep into her skin. "Laurel," and his voice was the calm anger before the storm. "Remember your status."

"I remember my status, I remember serving you loyally since the moment I met you, Fenrir," Laurel snapped off. "Since the moment you woke me and told me to call you Father I've served you more loyally than any of your named wolves -- "

Fenrir shoved her towards Remus. "Feel free to remind her of your status in any way you want, you have every right in this house, Remus," he said amicably, and left without another look at Laurel.

Remus avoided glancing back at Laurel as long as possible. There was no mistake that he was not one of her favourite people, all for the status that he held. "I did not come here to -- that is, I don't want..." It was pretty clear, however, that it didn't matter what he had intended.

Laurel wiped her nose with her sleeve and gave the stupid boy, the typical wizard, a steely look. "Remus," she said, with forced cordiality at being humbled. "A good name, fits a prince like you. Come along, I have to show you the pack's house." 

Explanations were going to be wasted here, he saw. He glanced quickly into the front room that Fenrir had indicated as containing 'bastards'. They didn't pay him any sort of attention, and the wolf felt no sort of kinship with them -- recognised them as wolves, but more inclined to ignore them. That was a first, he reflected dryly, and followed Laurel.

"How much did the wizards teach you, Remus?" She seemed to take a peculiar pleasure in spitting out his name. She gestured into the room where a large group of children shouted, played, and scribbled on parchment. "The children are kept here, as you can see," she chose to actually mention, clearly not relishing her job as tour guide.

"About pack? Not a lot," he replied. Which was to say, hardly anything. He spent more time examining the children in their room than he did with the last room, anything to keep his mind away from reminder of what had been done years ago, for whatever reason. They were still being children, and that was a bit refreshing.

Her expression said _Of course_ so she didn't have to. "These children are all named. When your wolf is named, you gain status. If it isn't, you're a bastard. Unless you are a very skilled bastard, you're not much more than a servant. You're named, even though you know nothing, you're above any of the bastards here who have served this pack for years. And if Fenrir were to die, you would rule us all."

He wasn't quite sure that he liked that. In fact, the idea was not enamouring at all. "I see," he said neutrally. A perfectly good reason for her to resent him, then.

"I wouldn't worry about that. Fenrir won't die anytime soon, he's under _fine_ protection," she sneered. She tucked her light hair behind her ears and impatiently gestured for him to follow her. "These first few nights will be hard for you after years of living like a wizard. Weak little things that they are."

If she wanted a rise, she was going to keep working for it, he resolved. He didn't come here to make waves, but that seemed unavoidable wherever he went. It just showed that no matter how far you ran from the world, there was something in front of you. He ignored her remarks and slid his hands in his trouser pockets, following her as she had indicated.

Laurel had no intention of stopping her jeers there. "We eat here." She jabbed her thumb into the room. "Usually meat, the wolf prefers it, but we can cook it more if your stomach can't handle something fresh. The children begin that way. Wesley is with the children, you'll meet him soon; he's named and is second to you. Careful with him, he took a piece out of me once." She tugged at her sleeve and revealed a nasty scar on her forearm. She grimaced at him and glanced up the stairs. "You'll be sleeping upstairs. It's _reserved_ for you."

So this Wesley would undoubtedly be no friend, either. A fighter, he could see, if the scar on Laurel's arm was any kind of indication. "I see. Erm, thank you." As soon as it came out of his mouth he realized how condescending it sounded, but there was no calling it back.

Laurel shook her head in disgust and began the trek up the stairs. "We're not done yet. More warnings to give you if you want to survive. I don't care if you survive, but my Father does and that’s all that matters." She glanced back at him as he followed with a faintly pained expression. "These are the full moon rooms on the left, on the right there is... Fenrir's and the witch's room, Wesley's, and _yours._ "

He nodded, until he picked up on an item in the list that didn't seem to fit. "There's a witch here?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

Her expression hardened at the mere mention of the witch. "Was. She's gone for a while. I wonder if you know her? You Hogwarts students all seem to be very close."

"Perhaps. The school isn't so large that one would go without hearing about someone." He couldn't imagine that a witch would be any more welcome here than he had been.

She walked slowly to the door to Remus's room, waiting for him to follow before she shoved him against the wall and gripped her hand around his neck. "You will not betray Fenrir. You will not betray this pack. He's..." Her voice wavered for a moment and then she went on in a furious whisper, "You're already a waste, but I will kill you myself if I find you're a traitor."

She was very strong. The back of his head throbbed not only from hitting the wall, but the wolf was seething at this show of violence. _Defend yourself, defend us,_ it demanded to Remus, although it seemed as though there were no point, pinned as he was. "I understand," he said evenly.

"I don't trust you," she reiterated. "I don't trust _trained, tamed_ werewolves from little wizarding towns who think that pack is a bloody joke. You commit to this, you leave now, or you die."

"I didn't come here looking to be trusted," he returned. He hadn't come looking for anything at all. This was the very definition of being in over one's head.

She released him fractionally. "... you don't mean to be trusted here?"

Was it such a foreign concept? Maybe it was to her. "My reasons for coming here are not anyone's business but my own," he said, a note of imperium in his voice. This could come in handy.

Laurel couldn't help but be startled at a werewolf declaring his lack of loyalty. "Your business is pack business, and it always will be. You realise that?" And now the fear crept in, with that note of dominance in his voice. She paled.

"I wouldn't bring anything down on this pack." The honest fact was that he was nothing out there, or not much, and he had no idea what he was doing here, either. "I have no hidden agenda, if that's what you're afraid of."

"Just... serve the pack. It's what our Father asks of you." She took a step back, head bowed, hands tucked demurely behind her back. "Your room is to your left, there are comforts there that the witch brought. If you need anything, ask me or Wesley; don't trouble Fenrir unless you must."

"I will," he said, merely relieved that her hands weren't around his neck anymore. Bothering Fenrir was honestly the furthest thing from his mind.

She nodded, head still lowered deferentially, and left before his mood could change. No chance in risking it, not with a werewolf with a wand.

Remus was left in the corridor, with little more to do than enter the room that was his. He twisted the knob and opened it, thinking over the curiosity of the witch in the pack. It was something to focus on in the midst of the absurdity he'd gotten himself into, anyway.

~*~

It was a good day for September, with a rare burst of sun in the afternoon. Jeremy Curenton found himself curled up in the window seat in the loud, occupied front room of the Den with a quill, ink, and some parchment, unable to decide if he was writing the Next Great Activist Book, a brilliant letter to the Daily Prophet, or a much less ambitious letter to his girlfriend at Hogwarts. He bit at the end of the quill and contemplated his aims.

The weeks since Julia went back to school for her seventh year had been decent, and he was doing well with his studies, including details on the history of werewolf treatment by the Ministry he’d badgered out of his father. He had a free out from Hogwarts, though, good or bad, and it was a good September day. Why do the extra work, at least on a day like this, when the wolf was quiet?

He leaned his head back and dropped the ink gently to the floor. Relaxation and contentment for once was nice. So things would probably get worse, and quick. So what? It wasn't bad now.

It was said that the best laid plans of mice and men often went astray, and mice and most men didn't have Alecto Carrow working with them. Briony had been quite careful to not say anything that could possibly contradict whatever story the witch had been concocting for the Curentons and whoever else was listening, but it was difficult -- especially when Briony had seen so little of her.

So Briony stayed where she was. She spent her full moon nights in rooms with other werewolves whose control was lacking severely, even non-existent, and her days keeping herself occupied. At the Den it was somewhat easier than she thought it would be, although she usually was satisfied to keep silent and on the side. She spent some time with Jeremy -- there weren't very many children or teenagers at the Den, but getting him alone had been a challenge. Until recently, he spent a great deal of time with his girlfriend -- another witch, strangely. It seemed like witches were bound to confound this plan in one way or another. The moment was coming closer, but she was still waiting for it.

She tried not to smirk when she saw him resting in the window seat, but was unable to keep from being amused. "Hi?" she tried, leaning on the wall.

He sat up, a little drowsier than he realised, and sent her a smile. "Hi. What, decided to stop lurking?" he teased.

"Something like that," she said, nudging his feet aside and taking a seat. "What're you working on?" she asked, noticing the parchment and abandoned ink on the floor.

"No idea yet," he admitted, looking at her instead of out of the window at the nice day outside. "A letter to Julia, a letter to _The Daily Prophet,_ something. Today's just one of those days that's full of potential, d'you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," she said. "I guess I know what you mean." She checked out the window to see if there was any sign of Alecto nearby.

"It's September and the sun's actually out. This is the kind of day you... you go out and win football matches, or see a history-making Quidditch match, or -- the sort of day it must have been when Caesar was assassinated by the Senate, or something," Jeremy went on with a vague gesture. "There's something in the air. So, I think I should write. I'm really only good at writing, never did get the hang of practical magic while I was at Hogwarts."

He babbled, Briony had found. She almost hated to take him back to Fenrir, but that was her job. "Never went," she said. "I was bit young."

He had honestly figured as much, but it was good to hear her say it. "Well. I'd say too bad, but it's almost worse to go and then get pulled. You're better off. Besides, there's not much there that you can't learn out here, and faster, with fewer distractions, at that. I'd put even money that Julia would stay out if her parents would let her."

"Well, what won't you put money on," she said dryly. It had never occurred to her that a witch or wizard who went to Hogwarts might not want to be there, but she supposed it made sense. People did things they didn't want to do all the time.

"There is nothing I won't place bets on. No, wait -- competitive eating, how many sweets can you eat in one minute, that kind of thing. That's just beneath me," Jeremy said, grinning. "It's fun, though. Quidditch is the best. You ever seen a match?"

She'd been deemed too young for her father -- her wizarding father -- to take to a match, no matter how she’d begged and begged. And then she'd been bitten, and large crowds of wizards and witches no longer suited her. "No," she answered simply.

"It's worth it. It takes some effort to keep control, you know how it is, but you've been dealing with this a long time, so you're probably better than I am." Only recently had Jeremy started to find the secret to keeping an even relationship with the wolf, what was accurately called 'control' -- compromise.

"You're not that bad," she admitted to him. She'd seen worse, and he hadn't been making the effort nearly as long as some. Even since she'd arrived, she could tell the difference. She'd also been keeping hers more tightly controlled than if she'd been at home. She allowed her wolf to playfully seek out his.

The touch of their wolves startled him, but his wolf was fine with it, even pleased, and it took him a moment to remember what he was going to say. "Thanks," he said. "Yeah. After a while, it's... necessary. You know, so you don't end up trying to plow through a wall during the full moon." He paused. "It's hard to learn this by yourself."

"I understand," she said immediately. His wolf was jumpy and not used to direct contact with other wolves. There was always an awareness, but touching wolf to wolf was an acknowledgement. "I... when I was little, before I learned -- before I was taught. I know the feeling," she concluded.

Two months Briony had been there, and he'd learned more from her, taciturn and shrewd as she seemed, than half of the werewolves that had ever passed through the Den. He could trust her. "I meant to ask something," he started.

She glanced up at him, but when he did not continue, prompted him with, "Okay."

"Named and unnamed." He looked out the window. "I don't understand the _difference._ I feel I understand a lot -- but I'll never understand that. I'll never understand _pack._ It's just -- " he let the wolf, which always grasped for contact no matter what the situation, touch to hers, gently. "That's all I've got."

Briony hesitated. She didn’t quite know how to describe it and struggled for her words. “I…” she started. “Wolves recognise each other, you know, and being named is… that. All the time, you can tell when they’re – happy, or scared, or hurt.” She felt his wolf reaching, grasping at the edges of her consciousness. She reached for his hand and held it firmly. The physical contact made connecting with him easier. _I’m sorry it’s not easier to explain._

The double contact gave him another start, and Jeremy took in a sharp breath, too sharp, and exhaled. “Like family,” he said. “Like they just know each other?” He let the wolf interact with hers, and even guided it, starting to understand. “No wonder unnameds are on the outskirts. It sounds… you’re lucky to have had that. To have pack.”

She suddenly missed Conor very badly, she’d never gone this long without seeing him since she knew him. And Geoffrey too, and Ralph, Tobias, and the others. She swallowed hard, startled by her own wolf’s reaction, not expecting it to be so strong. “Yes,” she said, and took a breath. “Yes, I am.”

He looked at his shoes, then, hating to presume, but he was crossing all sorts of lines with her today. “Do you miss them?” he asked. “Your pack.”

“Um.” She gave a small laugh; there wasn’t anything particularly funny about the situation, but it seemed like the thing to do. She’d been pushing thoughts of them away all this time. “I – yes. Very much,” she answered truthfully. 

How had he managed to make things this awkward? “I’m prying, I’ll stop,” he swore. “Only I’ve got you talking, I feel like it’s my obligation to keep you going.”

Briony shook her head. “No, you’re not, I swear, it’s just – “ She exhaled steadily and looked at him, with the sudden realisation that she was not going to have this kind of chance again. There was no sign of Alecto, but if she waited for the witch it may never happen and she had him interested. It was now or never. “We could go to them, me and you. It was… it was just Alec – you know, her that made them uncomfortable. They might like to meet you.”

The offer left Jeremy speechless, while his wolf remained simplistically playful with Briony, until he finally realised and swallowed before he spoke. “If it’s not too far, I can sneak out for a bit,” he said casually. “No harm in a bit of a trip. If you don’t mind. You miss them, I might as well escort you – and no danger when you’ve got a wand, right?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said with a rare, genuine smile. “It’s – not too far, I promise. I think.”

“Well – okay.” The idea was too tempting not to really follow through on. To see a _real pack_ … to see if maybe he could understand more than his father could, more than anyone really had before. “Are you sure it won’t be a problem?”

“Okay,” she said, and jumped up from the window seat. She moved too fast and had to stop because Jeremy’s hand was still firmly clasped in her own. They had to go, now, before something inevitably screwed it up. 

Jeremy smiled at her eagerness and stood. "Let’s go." He found himself in rare unison with the wolf as they left. He’d read that portion of his father's book countless times, on the feeling of pack, knowing he would never feel it. Even something close to that, observing and feeling like part of it, would be more than enough.

Briony was completely satisfied as they left the house and strode across the lawn, hand in hand. In no time at all they’d be back at Fenrir’s pack house. He would have Jeremy, and she would be back with Conor and they could start looking after their pack again.

As they walked down the hill, a voice called, "Jeremy?" strung with anxiety. "Jeremy! Come back here."

Briony looked up at Jeremy’s name being called, and at the woman who called it. No, no interruptions, not now. She pulled him more urgently, walked faster, beginning to panic.

“Mum.” Jeremy snapped out of the excitement that the wolf dragged him into. “Briony,” he said, half-questioning, half-pleading, and started to slow. “It’s my mum.”

“We have to go,” she whispered, now terrified of being caught, of failing. She was beginning to regret her hasty actions, when she could have offered and waited for later when she knew they couldn’t be caught. 

“That’s just my mum, it’s not a big deal,” he promised her, his wolf anxiously pressing him on. _Go with her, do it, go now._

She forced herself to breathe slower. This could still work out. But the desire to be back with her pack was overwhelming everything else now. “Then… we can’t…” _Think, Bri, think,_ she told herself angrily.

“We can’t?” Jeremy repeated, a bit numbly.

“Jeremy!” Brighid called, her panic clear. “Just – wait for a moment, all right?”

“I’ll be back, Mum,” he shouted back, the wolf’s desire for pack overwhelming even his common sense, and he kept on walking, his hand still gripping Briony’s. The wolf didn't like his mother much, as she was largely responsible for penning him in. He managed a few feet before a spell slammed directly into the side of his head, blood blooming at the point it struck home. He hit the ground a dazed moment later, unconscious.

A still-disguised Alecto appeared beside Briony an instant later with the whipcrack of Apparation, seized her arm roughly, and Side-Along Apparated the useless werewolf who'd buggered it all up as far as she could think of. Fenrir was going to be furious, nearly as furious as she was.

It was perhaps a matter of five seconds or less between when Briony and Jeremy had been walking away from the Den and when she landed on her back in front of Fenrir’s pack house. Her face flushed red. _No._ “What the bloody hell was that?” she demanded as she clumsily pushed herself off the grass and back onto her feet. 

"That was you _failing,_ " Alecto snapped, running her fingers frantically through her awful tinted hair. "That was you showing how worthless you and your pack are to Fenrir's cause, be prepared to _bow,_ little girl, because otherwise you’ll really suffer for your failure to complete _one little task._ " 

“I had things under control!” she screamed back. “We’re not worthless, I was doing my job, _I had him!_ He was coming with me willingly!”

Alecto seized Briony by the front of her shirt and hissed, "You _didn’t_ have him. If I hadn’t stepped in, you’d be caught now without any hope of escape, you _stupid_ girl. You would’ve fallen right into their hands, and you’d suffer a worse fate at the hands of the Ministry!"

“He wouldn’t have given me up, _let go,_ ” she cried, and lashed out with one hand at Alecto. She didn’t draw any blood, but there were three very satisfying red marks on her cheek.

Alecto reacted with a vicious shove that pushed her to the ground and gave her the time to stalk into the house. “Fenrir, come now, you have a failure to execute!” The Pack house, at first silent, began to fill with the sound of mumbling discontent until Fenrir thundered down the stairs himself to find his long-lost witch sweeping out of the door.

"Alecto -- "

"Here is your Conor's precious first," Alecto interrupted with a sarcastic flourish to the girl. "His useless, thoughtless, spineless first..."

Briony hit the ground and recovered quickly, struggling to pick herself up. “I had him! If you think I’m worthless, why don’t you ask _her_ what the hell she was doing all the time.”

“Oh, let’s see,” Alecto said nastily. “Nothing important, really, I was just getting information on where other packs were, how they fared, the current events – oh, and tearing a hole into the Curentons’ wards, so we could snatch him out of his bed, so his _parents_ couldn’t interfere! You were too busy _cosying up_ – “

“Shut up,” she snapped in return. “We didn’t have to make this into a scene by going into their house, I had him coming willingly. It would have been hours before they missed him.”

“ _Apparently_ not, you’d already been noticed,” Alecto retorted.

" _Enough,_ both of you," Fenrir snapped, any favouritism towards Alecto overwhelmed by his own anger at the bickering. This wasn’t at all the time. "Now tell me what happened there, the truth, _one of you._ And keep from blaming each other!"

Briony took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully, but now frightened. “I’ve been at the Den, and I got to know him – we… it doesn’t matter. He trusted me, and I was bringing him here. Two months, and I’d seen her I don’t know, a dozen times?” she said, motioning at the witch with extreme frustration.

“I see how well it worked,” Alecto said acidly, then turned to Fenrir. “I will admit she was doing well in convincing him along, with what questionable tactics I'm unsure, but _then,_ " she waved her finger at the girl, "then the boy’s mother caught her sneaking him out. I knocked him unconscious, I brought us both here, she would have easily been caught and betrayed her purpose, you know that!"

She took his hand, sank to a knee, and looked up at him imploringly even as he stared down at her with scepticism. "I saved her and kept your people and your purpose safe, and that was what you sent me to do."

"I sent you there to get the boy." Fenrir pushed away her hands and took a step back, giving the two a cold glare. "Both of you were sent there to do that, you didn't, and you'll both be punished for it. I don't care whose fault it was. Briony, get inside of the house."

"Fenrir," Conor called from the steps. He knew Fenrir's punishments after many years of closeness between their packs, and that was nothing he wanted his first to experience. "Fenrir, this was a fool's errand, he's a bastard and you don't need him, just _forget_ this -- "

"You had no problem sending these two to this errand, but now that your little girl’s going to be punished, you’ve changed your mind?" Fenrir brushed that off. "Stand aside and let me assert my rights, brother."

“I’m not yours.” Briony spoke as evenly as she could through her thoroughly frayed nerves. Frightened, she pulled at her tie with Conor, unsure of what she was looking for but unwilling to go through this alone.

Fenrir approached her and slapped her across the face without a thought, and she cried out. "You both agreed to work for my cause, both of you, and failure demands punishment." He turned to see Conor furiously holding himself back, gripping the rail beside him. "Do you want to force this issue further, Conor?"

"This madness has gone far enough," Conor shouted. "This madness, witches and wizards and pledging your life to the wizards' Dark Lord, how many wizards have promised us freedom and refused to give it to us once we gave them power? You've gone absolutely mad, Fenrir, stop this -- "

"I think you're the mad one, Conor," Alecto spoke up from her spot on the ground, deferring to Fenrir. "Mad to challenge a man who has the strength of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at his fingertips the moment he reaches for it."

“Don’t speak to him!” Briony yelled, and held the side of her face, blinking back tears.

"I think you're in no position to judge me, Briony," Alecto retorted, not even allowed the chance to reconsider her words before she received a similar chastising hit across the face.

“STOP,” Fenrir shouted above them all, and glared at each in the silence. " _Enough,_ I said. Briony, Alecto, get to your feet, Conor, out of my way. My house, my pack, my rules." He gestured the two subordinates ahead, watching Alecto hurry past him with the tell-tale shudder of oncoming tears.

Briony took a deep breath of her own and forced herself to walk into the house, one foot in front of the other with as much dignity as she could manage. 

Conor forced himself to not stop her, to have no reaction, to let himself be powerless. This was almost an act of war by Fenrir himself, but other packs might not see it that way, even the ones who would be inclined to side against him. No, this was diplomacy, though diplomacy did not halt his rage when Fenrir passed him by without a glance.

"You first," Fenrir said to Briony while they still stood in the foyer, gesturing to Wesley to seize her. "Twenty," he decided, looking her over without much enthusiasm, and watched Wesley hit her with blow after calculated blow to cause the each bit of pain she had led the Pack to suffer with her failure.

Briony was determined to take the beating quietly, scenes were for children and she was not a child. Her stoicism worked for about the first four or five blows. Beyond that, she didn’t bother to count and knew she had cried out. When it stopped she could hardly make herself believe it, staring at the floor in dumb shock on her hands and knees. She wasn’t sure what was bleeding, but she could hear it drip to the floor rather than feel it, staining the worn floorboards.

Conor pulled a bleeding Briony into his arms without a second thought, like a father comforting his daughter, his expression stoic. "He'll pay," he whispered into Briony's ear, barely audible, his rough hand stroking her hair.

Alecto stared as the punishment went on, not so much surprised by the brutality itself but rather by the person inflicting it and the effectiveness. She had done a very good job of avoiding being on the wrong side of Wesley’s fist since her arrival at the Greyback pack, but those days were over. As Fenrir began to examine her, she hoped for a ten, maybe a fifteen at worst, and tried to remind him with her expression that she was in his bed nearly every night.

"Twenty-five," Fenrir decided. Her look of utter surprise was almost comedic for as long as it lasted -- Wesley wasted no time in taking her off of her feet with a punch. She lost count of the blows, lay on the floor, and tried to remind herself that Cruciatus was so, so much worse. 

Briony heard the number as clearly as she heard Conor whisper in her ear. Even though she felt that the witch had deserved it and more, she didn’t think she could watch. Leaning on Conor heavily, she tenderly dabbed at her bleeding lip, and watched Wesley and the witch with a view mostly obscured by her hair. When she saw one of Wesley’s calculated blows land, she flinched. Instead of watching, she pressed her face into Conor’s chest, and concentrated on breathing. 

Fenrir looked on with the amusement of a ringleader, nudging a shivering Alecto onto her side with his toe before commenting down to his fellow pack leader. "Your weakness is showing, Conor," he noted with a smirk.

"Your need to control is showing, Fenrir," Conor said evenly, not making a single move to withdraw from comforting Briony. "Tending to your pack doesn’t make you weak, it makes you effective -- "

"What would you do if I killed her?" Fenrir wondered. "Wesley can kill her. Back, Wesley," he ordered, as the werewolf locked his eyes on the girl again. "I could kill her. It's -- "

"A power trip," Conor said, closing his eyes and leaning to kiss the top of Briony's head. "If you kill my first, I declare war. You know that. If you kill my first, I kill your first and any who stand in my way."

Fenrir turned his back on the happy pair; he had his own first to tend to. "Find me if you want to talk about this later. If you don't, just let yourselves out," he called casually as he went upstairs, and knocked on Remus's door.

Conor pulled Briony to her feet and pressed a fatherly kiss to her cheek. "You're going home," he whispered to her, damn what any of the others heard. "I refuse to see you as a casualty of war."

~*~

Anyone who read _The Daily Prophet_ knew that Greyback’s pack was active, ready to snatch, kill, or intimidate anyone who got in their way, and the Curentons knew they were a target for a fact. Nevertheless, it was quiet in Pembrokeshire with little werewolf behaviour besides that of their own werewolves at the Den, and Brighid Curenton had been lulled in by the peace. Paranoid as she was, terrified as she was that her last child would be stolen from her, she let her guard down and now paid for her mistake – her son was lying on the ground, bleeding. She desperately held back tears of panic and ran into the Den as fast as she could, pushing open Owen's door so hard it slammed against the other side. "Owen. Owen, it's Jeremy. Come now. Now," she demanded, only aware she was shaking when she took a much-needed breath.

No more needed to be said to get him to drop the parchment in his hands, jump out of his chair, and leave his office. When he didn’t see Jeremy where he last had, in the window seat, he turned to Brighid. “Where is he?” he asked her.

"Out... out front." A faintness at the memory of late December 1977 made her have to lean against the threshold as she spoke. "Edge of the hill, he..."

He gave Brighid’s arm the briefest of squeezes and left the Den at a run, and finally, he saw Jeremy, unmoving on the ground. His heart jumped into his throat, a disgustingly familiar feeling for a disgustingly familiar sight. He slid to a stop beside Jeremy and saw where he was bleeding. “Jeremy,” he said urgently. “Jeremy, it’s dad. Can you hear me?”

"A witch or wizard was here, it was a spell or a hex or something, it was nonverbal, I don't know who could've – who would _want_ to," Brighid got out as she approached her husband and knelt by her son. "I think he's unconscious, I hope there's nothing permanent... there was a girl!" She’d nearly forgotten entirely. "A girl, he was with a girl, they were walking this way, and I tried to stop them…”

“Definitely spellwork,” he said, carefully pushing Jeremy’s dark hair aside to look at the wound. “Just broke the skin and knocked him out, I should think.” Just to make sure and quiet any leftover doubts about it, he felt for and found a pulse in his son’s neck, strong and steady.

"Owen, there are wizards involved," she said quietly after a moment, touching her son's face. This was the only way things could get worse. "It's... there are wizards and werewolves and they're all coming after him."

He conjured a towel and pressed it to Jeremy’s temple in hopes of stopping the bleeding. “Do you remember the girl? What she looked like, I mean,” he said.

“Blonde, but she had a girl with her, a brunette, she Apparated,” Brighid sighed, before her panic got to her and she felt faint again. “I... I can't take this again, Owen. I can't. Once was enough. More than enough.”

Jeremy started to come to, but almost wished he hadn’t. Things were going much better before he had. "Nn," he managed, swatting at whatever was on his forehead.

Owen didn’t answer Brighid right then but exchanged a look to let her know that this conversation was not over, probably by a long shot. “Hey, hey,” he said to Jeremy, gently catching his hand and putting it back at his side. “Hold on, you’re still bleeding.”

"Bleed... no." Jeremy pushed himself up, blinking heavily. He could vaguely recall what had happened before, but not anything with blood. "What -- where is she?" he asked after a long pause.

“Yes, bleeding,” Owen said, his concern right now being that Jeremy would overexert himself. “Lie still.”

"I'm _going._ " He stubbornly reached to sit up, but found himself a little too light-headed to manage. "I am. Mum," he added with a resentful sigh.

Brighid's mouth formed a tight line of agitation. "Don't you _Mum_ me, Jeremy, if I wasn't here to feed your father who knows where you could be right now! What are you thinking, running off with girls?"

A girl. A girl, who’d led him out of the Den, and now he was flat on his back bleeding from the head. The realisation struck Jeremy and he sat in shock, a hand going to his face. “Briony,” he said, his voice shaky. “She – ”

Briony, and Alex. A blonde and a brunette, a werewolf and a witch. It made all too much sense. Owen mentally kicked himself. “She’s not here,” he said.

“No,” Jeremy said, insistent. “Don’t look like that, Dad, she didn’t – maybe the witch did but Briony _wouldn’t_ – ”

Owen hesitated. They came together, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think. “Lay still, Jeremy, you were just knocked out.”

It hurt too much for Jeremy to focus on the betrayal. “I want to go home,” he muttered. “ _Bollocks._ Home,” he repeated to his dad. “Who hit me?”

“I would guess the witch. Alex. Briony didn’t have a wand, I didn’t think. Pretty quick spellwork,” he said, letting Jeremy take over the duties of pressing the towel to his head. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

Brighid helped with an uncharacteristically grim expression and pointed Owen's attention to an abandoned lunch bag. "I'll take him home, but you have to eat. I swear you'd forget your head if it wasn't attached."

Owen looked between Brighid and the lunch and quickly acquiesced rather than push the point. "All right. I should be home early, in any event. You," he pointed at Jeremy, "rest. Take it easy."

Jeremy just gave a weary nod, and Brighid leaned to give Owen a quick kiss. "Please, as soon as you can," she said, sliding Jeremy's arm around her shoulders. “We need you.”

“Mum,” Jeremy groaned, looking up at the implication that he needed to be babied. “Come on.”

“You worry about him, that’ll keep you plenty occupied for the rest of the day.” Owen picked the lunch off of the ground and headed back into the Den as Brighid helped Jeremy down the hill. He paused long enough at the door to watch them make their way home, before heading back to work.

~*~

Going home took Briony a longer time than leaving had. Granted, when she and Conor had left their house for Fenrir's, she hadn't just had the beating of her life and was not running on little to no sleep. Walking in a straight line was a trial at times, but as long as it was in the opposite direction, she hardly cared.

She reached the house at dusk and stopped at the steps for a moment. The feeling of familiarity and home threatened to overwhelm her, leaving a ball of emotion in her throat and tears pricking at her eyelids. Finally giving in to the wolf's impatience ( _Go in, what are you waiting for?_ ), she took a breath to compose herself and then lifted the latch to let herself inside.

Even before he heard someone at the door, Geoffrey knew that someone was there, no, that Briony was there. He left Melinda with a kiss and managed as dignified a run as he could to the door, reaching it just as it opened. "Briony," he said at the sight of her in a half-sigh of relief, before the beaten look of her or the ramifications of her returning alone even struck him.

Jane poked her head down the stairwell at the sound of the door opening, Geoffrey was already there with Briony. Alone. Who really looked like she'd just been through the wringer. Immediately worried, she jumped up and went down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "You're alone," she said, in lieu of a greeting.

"Yes," Briony replied, leaning against the door and feeling almost completely relieved. How to explain to them. She caught the eye of some of the other pack members, who watched her carefully through the doorway to their main room. "We need to talk, the three of us."

"Conor's room." Geoffrey briefly caught Briony's hand and squeezed it, an extra intimacy with the wolf already worriedly nudging at hers.

Jane turned right back around without a word and led them back up the stairs. Briony gratefully accepted his hand squeeze and relented to his persistent wolf. "It's not as bad as it looks," she lied to him under her breath as they climbed the stairs.

Geoffrey gave her a scolding look, albeit with much affection. "Yes it is," he said.

She shook her head, caught in her blatant lie but unwilling to give up the bravado that it had created. She sank to the floor and leaned against the wall as Geoffrey closed the door behind them, resting for a moment, trying to figure out how to word this.

Jane sat as well, waiting patiently for Briony. Although she finally couldn't stand it anymore and asked, "So... where's Conor?"

"Back at Fenrir's," Briony answered wearily. "He's... he's fine."

"For how long, in that snakepit?" Geoffrey sat near her once again, too naturally protective.

"He can take care of himself," she said, although she could feel that her worry was showing through. "And he couldn't leave, someone had to stay there and keep an eye out. It's a lot worse than we thought."

"How?" Jane demanded. "Is - the witch? Is it her?"

"The witch has taken the pack and turned it upside down," she said, with as little bitterness as possible -- which wasn't saying much. "It's worse. The Death Eaters use werewolves for weapons."

The sentence made no sense to Geoffrey until he forced himself to believe it; Briony had no reason to lie or joke in this context. "How?" he asked, for once his temper lashing out worse than the wolf's.

She grasped for the words. "I don't -- I don't _know,_ " she said, knowing he wasn't talking about the technical how to of betraying your kind. "They threaten who they want and use Fenrir if they don't comply. Especially if they have children. Otherwise, they mostly don't bother with the pack. Except for _her,_ " she added, clearly meaning the witch.

He sought her hand again, rubbing his thumb over the top of it as he surveyed her injuries and weariness. "Is she the one who did this to you?"

Briony laughed. There wasn't anything particularly funny, but it was easier to laugh than remember the punishment and humiliation that had gone with it. "No. If it was her, I could have given as good as I got. It was Wesley."

One of Jane's eyebrows shot up; her stomach had just stopped twisting. "Oh."

"Yes, oh. The witch looks as bad as I do, Wesley got her too. We supposedly failed to attract one of Fenrir's bastards to the pack. One that he doesn't need, at that." She tried not to think about how things had turned out, with the witch complicating things more than necessary, and she should not have made friends with Jeremy. That had made it all the harder, not easier. "Fenrir was acting like we were a part of the pack already."

Geoffrey's temper flared. "Wesley? That brute? On Fenrir's orders, I would guess." Restless, he rose and walked to the window only to see the few children playing outside. He forced himself to look back into the room, at his injured sister.

"Obviously," Briony said, straightening up and trying not to look like she'd just had her arse kicked into next month. Geoffrey was getting himself in a snit and that wasn't going to help anyone and just make for a particularly bad full moon for them all. "That's. That's all, really. He's staying there to keep an eye on things."

Geoffrey made himself breathe slowly and the wolf reassured him, supported him. Only then could he respond to that. "I have faith in Conor," he said, "but how will we know if something goes wrong? What if the witch tries something? What if they deem Conor just another of their pack and hurt him as well?"

"I don't know," she answered again, sighing and rubbing her eyes. 

"We just have to sit and wait," Jane said, frowning. She didn't like that idea, but it was about all that they could do - short of going back.

"Sit and wait, while our Father leaves us to compromise with a madman who's already hurt our pack's first," Geoffrey sighed. He resisted the desire to pace, and merely said, "Well. We have to talk to the pack."

"Then we'll do that," Jane said evenly. She stood to leave, but stopped at the door. "We'll figure something out."

"I want to rest first," Briony said, recoiling at the idea of talking to the pack just now.

"Go on, rest," Geoffrey said, exhaling. "I have to go talk to them." He was the heir. It was his job, after all, and if Conor died, that was the way it would be.

She reached for a helping hand up, and received it as she told him, "Just stay calm. It's not going to do any good for you to get like you do."

"I don't get any way," he said defensively, even though he knew what a lie it was. "This is my job, Briony."

She gave him a Look. "Yeah. 'Course you don't," she said, touching his wolf gratefully. She'd missed him, headstrong and foolhardy crazy boy that he could be.

He really had missed her terribly. "Fine," he said, grudgingly conceding the point. "I'm still going to talk to them."

"You should. I'm going to go die now," she announced, pushing past Jane at the door to go to her room, where she could rest without interruption and without worry. For the moment, her relief at being home could overtake her worry for Conor.

Geoffrey turned to Jane and sent her a thin, weary smile. "Ready?" he asked. Now that Briony wasn't so near, he could feel the pack -- his pack -- and it comforted him.

"Ready." She nodded, and motioned for him to go first. 

He descended the stairs, collecting himself in preparation to face his pack as the leader he had to become.


	10. The Dark Lord's Hand

_As the New Year dawns, we are also approaching the ninth year of this war against the faceless terror of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters. On first glance, this is disheartening, even devastating. This is a war that has touched all of our lives in one way or another, but as your Minister, I entreat -- no, implore you to not let this war rule your lives. You have the best and the brightest that wizarding Britain and Ireland has to offer working to protect you wherever you are. Don't live in fear. By living in fear, you have consented to let the evil that would seek to divide and destroy us do so. Be safe, but live your life. To avoid doing so is a crime against yourself._ Caius Beamish. "Minister for Magic's New Year Address," from London, England, January 1, 1979. 

_September 1978_  
Alecto Carrow had a luxurious bed in the flat she was still paying for, despite that she hadn't been there for so long she couldn't remember what colours the walls were. Back home in London, she had everything. Now, here at Fenrir Greyback's pack house, she no longer had a bedroom now that Laurel had taken back her place in Fenrir's bed. On Alecto's part, she was almost grateful to be torn away from the wretched beast, as he had ordered her beaten into a pulp; part of her still held a dark jealousy and called for vengeance against the skinny girl who now lay beside the Pack leader. All of her hurt.

The sun was rising and she had fallen asleep on the floor of the main room, where everyone ate, slept, and met to hear Fenrir speak. Her eyes opened but she didn't want to move, because there would only be plans to make and she had taken no pain potions after the beating. Three days later, it still hurt; eventually she stretched out and heard footsteps, tensing once more.

Remus was more than certain that he had no idea what he was doing. He never could quite work out the pack politics, nor did he really have a desire to. He'd wanted a place that was... no, really, he didn’t know what to do, what he wanted to do, or what he should. He couldn’t relax, his brain was running overtime, and he wasn't sleeping well. It was not optimal.

He left his room -- he was still baffled over this -- and went down the stairs as quietly as possible, which was not very quiet at all, considering the state of the house itself. He didn't know what he would do down there at this early hour, but it certainly beat just sitting up there. Perhaps. After a little more unsure shifting on his feet, he sat on the bottom step.

Alecto made herself stand, body aching, and slowly went from the threshold to the foyer. She leaned against it, seeing a boy on the step... no, not quite a boy, but not as tough as those who endured long stretches of pack life with Fenrir Greyback. "You're his first, aren't you," she said, muting her voice. "You're Remus, the new arrival. The wizard. I've heard a lot about you, you know."

Remus glanced up sharply, and tried to still his wildly beating heart. "That's me," he said cautiously. He was slowly learning that the wolf acted as a sort of hyperactive sixth sense about people. And right now it was telling him that she was no werewolf. "I must say likewise. You must be the witch."

No harm in being friendly, so she approached with a slow, painful gait until she sat a step up from him, considering him with a sober look. "I'm the witch. My name is Alecto, and I... am here to lead Fenrir's pack into better times and better places. Consider me a missionary. You've returned home to your kind, then?"

"I suppose." He couldn't really consider it a home, but neither was the house where he had grown up, or anywhere else. It was close enough. "Four walls and a roof, anyway."

"What house were you in? I know your last name, but you abolished your ties to your adoptive wizarding father the moment you walked in that door, didn't you?" It was small talk, yes, but this boy could ruin everything. Fenrir and his sons, the whole pack hierarchy was waiting for an excuse to collapse.

Remus didn't flinch as her words, that was how wizarding parents were talked of here. Everything ran back to the Pack's father, not your biological parents. But so many years were not gone in a matter of weeks. Nor was he certain he would have wanted it to be. "Gryffindor," he answered her question, to avoid considering it further. He'd loved school.

 _Ah._ Alecto should have known, he had the look about him. "I was a Slytherin, class of 1973. Not too much older than you." She leaned back on the stairs, resting her elbows on the steps behind her. "I consider myself a sort of advisor to Fenrir. I am no werewolf, but I've been living here for some time, long enough to understand you werewolves and your politics." She exhaled sharply and cast a curious gaze on him. "So. Why are you here? He's overjoyed, blinded by finally gaining you, and he doesn't even realise he has a Gryffindor in his midst. A hero. Why are you here?"

A hero. He gave a quiet, derisive laugh, though the word caught him off guard after her bombast. He wasn’t sure how to respond. Being with someone who had no wolf after being surrounded by them day in and day out was unsettling, like climbing a staircase in the dark and expecting one more step than there actually was. It probably unsettled him more that he now found that jarring, actually. "I didn't know where else to be," he finally said, afraid to reveal too much to her.

She didn't like his quiet, or the look of him at all – and like any good Slytherin, Gryffindors made her wary. This was all too appropriate; leaving school, returning to his pack, but why? Hogwarts provided a place in the sun, if nothing else. "I'm sure you've heard this more often than you like," she said, voice smooth, "but if you betray this pack, you will die. The wizarding world and its politics are a second priority. If you compromise the pack for that, you die." She smiled, slid the sleeve off of her arm, and bared the Dark Mark to his vision. "Do you recognise that, Remus Lupin?"

He'd opened his mouth to reply sarcastically that strangely enough, he had heard that said, but the words stuck in his throat at the sight of the Dark Mark on Alecto's forearm. It took him right out of this small microcosm of pack and back into the world. "I know what it is," he answered.

Alecto had her gauge. She ran her fingers over the Mark lovingly, remembering hoods and masks and _Morsmordre_. Sometimes the memories faded when in Fenrir's house, but the Mark that kept her the Dark Lord's property always brought them back. "The Dark Lord means to help the werewolves through their difficult times and draw them out of their suffering state. If you interfere, you have not only the pack's fury, but the Dark Lord's." She smiled, a baring of the teeth. "You see what you're fit to inherit, Remus? A pack that will one day be unified with all the rest. A kingdom of all werewolves. It's a fantastic idea."

No matter what the wolf wanted, the kinship and community of wolves or whatever, Remus himself balked at it. He'd wanted and asked for none of it. If that was a product of staying with his parents and attending Hogwarts, he would still change nothing. He was what he was. "And Fenrir thinks that.... this," he gave a delicate glance at the Dark Mark, "is the best way to go about building his unified pack."

"The best way? No, just an opportune way." Alecto gave a quick shrug to dismiss it. "Some of your sort seem to worry that the wizards will crush any unified pack that forms. When the Dark Lord takes over, he will have mercy on the werewolves, and that's why we have stretched our hand out to aid them now. Why help build such a thing only to destroy it?" She caught the Mark in the sunlight, smiling at it. "Does it make you uncomfortable? The idea of being helped by the Dark Lord, I mean. If it does, I assure you, His work to help the werewolves requires little compensation by the pack."

It most certainly made him uncomfortable, although not necessarily for the reason that Alecto thought. The least of these reasons not being the Order of the Phoenix -- he'd been afraid to even think the name of their organization, certain that his very thoughts could be read. He was supposed to be fighting Death Eaters, helping the Order, and he'd done nothing, not even made contact with them since he'd left Sirius's. As soon as it was opportune to do so, he vowed to send a message along. For now, it wouldn't do to appear overly nervous. A fair bit of fear might be all right. "A little," he said, a lie. It made him very uncomfortable. "But, if Fenrir thinks it opportune..."

Alecto's smile grew wide and she patted him on the shoulder. "Racial loyalty. I admire that, the trust in only those outsiders who will further your kind. We're much the same in that." The house was beginning to stir, the upstairs bedrooms; Fenrir, Laurel, Wesley. She didn't want to meet with any of the three at this time in the morning. "Watch your step, Remus," she advised at last. "And if you require the Dark Lord's hand at any moment, do call on me."

Remus was fairly sure that he was not going to require the Dark Lord's hand, foot, or whatever other body part he was willing to offer any time soon. Probably ever, actually. "Thank you," he managed to force out before the wolf compelled him to move and his feet had to obey, moving towards the back of the house, away from the Dark Lord's servant in his midst.

~*~

_November 1978_  
Keith's instincts were usually correct, and in this case, he was of the continued opinion that he was at the very least not wrong. A handful of wolves from the Ben Skoll pack stayed at the Den with any sort of frequency and a few more went there on a few occasions. When Jeremy Curenton began asking after his pack, Keith's instincts told him that taking him to meet Ben Skoll, his Father, was a good idea. Although, he was having second thoughts by the time he landed on his back from his inexact Apparation. 

He jumped to his feet, blushing, and dusted himself off. He looked at his surroundings, got his bearings, and saw the back of the house up the next hill, twenty or thirty meters away. "Just up there," he spoke to Jeremy, pointing.

Jeremy stood up straight, fixed his cloak, and followed Keith's indication to see the pack house not too far away. He sent Keith a wicked half-grin and raked his hand through his hair. "Great," he said. "Thanks. Any warnings? I know some pack leaders are... specific in what they ask from visitors."

"Ah, well," Keith started, looking back up at the house again as they started walking. "I guess not. Ben's not exactly average amongst pack leaders, you know, but um. Sky will be there at least, she's the first. They might ask you questions in return, so if you're uncomfortable with that or have any reason to be anything less than honest..." He let end of the sentence hang in the air.

Jeremy nodded and took note of the terrain over Keith's shoulder and all around them, prepared to again Apparate back to Skoll's house if this went well. "I'm a Curenton. We're honest to a fault." He paused, but went on and asked. "Is it true that Skoll seized the pack against pack law?"

Keith sent him a dry smile. "In a manner of speaking. I'll let Ben answer, he will tell the better story."

Jeremy grinned. If the leader was anything like his free pack members, this was going to be a fun trip. He wasn't counting on it, though; he still had his wand in his pocket. "I'm honoured," he said.

"Well, good," he answered, and looked at Jeremy before making the final steps to the door and twisting the doorknob open. "Then you are welcome."

No sooner had he actually opened the door than he was, for lack of a better term, attacked by a girl of no more than ten with a long black plait down her back. Even as she knocked him down in surprise and sat on his chest, she began talking to him with irrepressible excitement. "KEITH you were gone for ages, Rory thought you were never going to come back but I told him you would be, just wait. Where were you? Were you at the Den again -- "

"Gemma," he cut her off with a breathless greeting once he had his breath back. "Rory never thinks I'm coming back. Want to let me up?"

"Okay," she agreed easily, and for the second time in about five minutes Keith pulled himself up off the ground while Gemma examined Jeremy. "Who's he?" she asked, experimentally reaching out to him with the wolf.

"Gem, this is Jeremy Curenton. He wanted to meet the pack," he said, putting a hand on her head.

The wolf responded instantly to Gemma’s touch, and Jeremy offered his hand to her. "I'm Jeremy," he said. "I've heard a lot of good things about your pack, I'm just... interested to see it in person."

"Hi," she greeted him, shaking his hand. 

"We're going to talk to Ben. Is he here? Or Sky?" Keith asked her. 

"Yeah. They're both here," Gemma answered and as abruptly as she'd appeared, turned on her heel and ran back inside. "RORY. HE'S BACK. I TOLD YOU. HE EVEN _BROUGHT_ SOMEONE."

Keith sighed, as if he were winded all over again. "Gemma. She's Skylar's, and Rory's mine," he explained shortly. "Come on inside."

Jeremy stepped inside. It was like the Den, with its sense of community, but completely unlike it in how very _werewolf_ it was. If he reached out with that slight sense of pack he could remember feeling when he'd touched Briony, he could feel the undertone of a home. "Thanks," he said belatedly to Keith.

"Sure," he said. "Now that the house has been alerted that we're all here -- "

"KEITH."

"Aha. That would be Skylar. Just call her Sky," he told Jeremy, before they met her in the doorway to the next room. "Sky," he greeted.

"I know that you are male and in some packs that means you would be entitled, but it's never worked like that here," she told him pointedly, hands on her hips. "You should at least have the courtesy to tell us where you're going when you go there, instead of just letting us guess. Rory's -- "

"Sky, please. He's a guest," Keith said, jerking a thumb at Jeremy without looking too abashed.

Sky glanced quickly at Jeremy, and then back at Keith. "Still. You could have asked."

"Better to ask forgiveness than permission, Skylar." He smiled mildly at her. "So can he meet Ben or not?"

"I'm harmless," Jeremy explained, with a wide smile. "I'm a bastard of a pack I've never met. You can trust me for a few hours."

Skylar chortled. "You're him, the activist's son. I've seen you before," she said, but kindly. "Ben... actually would probably like to speak with you." She tilted her head. _Follow me._

"See? No trouble," Keith told Jeremy, slapping him on the shoulder and pulling him along.

Jeremy liked this place already; both he and the wolf could easily relax, because everyone, or at least most everyone, seemed to be fairly open here, a definite change from most of the werewolves he knew.

"Ben, we've got company," Skylar called out ahead of them, and when she stepped aside, roughly half a dozen other werewolves watched as Keith brought Jeremy into the room. 

Included in these was Ben Skoll, the pack's leader. He watched his son bring in the stranger, immediately feeling him out with the wolf. "Keith," he said, slightly chiding.

"Ben," he replied urgently, but immediately deferent. _Just listen._ "This is Jeremy Curenton. He's come a long way to meet you and speak with you about the pack."

"I see," Ben said slowly, rising and stepping around Gemma, who was busy gathering up a beat-up pack of Exploding Snap cards, to approach Keith and Jeremy.

Jeremy paused and felt the situation grow tense, the wolf withdrawing somewhat. Instinct pressed him hard and he took the moment to take his wand and hand it off to Keith. "You've nothing to fear from me," he said.

Ben watched Keith accept the wand, and felt Curenton withdraw. Not panicked yet, but alarmed. He briefly touched Jeremy's wolf. _Likewise._ "So, my son says you desire to speak with me about my pack," he said gently, throwing a look at Keith. "Why?"

Jeremy exhaled at the acceptance and formulated this response as well as he could. "I need to understand," he said. "I've never known a pack, and -- one day I mean to rejoin mine. And if there's any pack I should be able to understand, it should be the most misunderstood one I've ever heard of. I'm fairly misunderstood myself."

Ben exchanged glances with Keith and then Skylar -- her glance confirmed it. _This boy is exactly who you think he is._ "Yes, misunderstood," she said with a light smirk at Ben.

"Oh, shut up, Sky," he returned with a playful push at her wolf. 

"So are you going to answer his questions or not?" she asked back.

Ben eyed Jeremy again. "Misunderstood... might be the correct term. Although with that said, why don't you tell us what sort of words get passed around about us amongst the packs these days. What have you heard?"

Jeremy didn't let his confidence be shaken by the obvious scepticism of the pack. "I can't get an exact story on how exactly you came to power. Your Father was in control of this pack one day, and then the next, he was dead and so was his first. And you, an unnamed, were at the head," he said, considering Ben Skoll. He looked like the kind of man who could seize power like that. "I've heard a lot of criticism on your female first having more power than your males, how you've overthrown the patriarchal system. How your pack is everything that's not pack. I didn't believe it, and I especially don't after seeing it for myself, even this much. You are a pack. But you're also misunderstood."

"Nice to know they're still _mostly_ passing around the truth," he said dryly, and gave a short, relatively humourless laugh. "Go ahead and have a seat, Curenton. You're here, you may as well hear. Have you ever heard of patricide within the pack?"

The wolf recoiled at the idea, although Jeremy wouldn't pretend he hadn't considered the idea for his _Father._ "I didn't think anyone would dare," he said honestly.

"Hardly anyone does," Ben said. "It... takes a person who can overcome their wolf's deepest instinct, and a dastardly and power hungry one at that. Skoll's first was this sort of man." He focused on the floor and felt Sky nudging at him lightly. It was not his favourite memory; nothing pained him more than to remember how he’d come to be head of the pack.

"Gareth murdered Skoll, and I attempted to interfere. My father was not... precisely a forthcoming man, but he was a good leader that certainly didn't deserve to be deposed. Well. I let my affection for the man get in the way of the pack's inheritance. Gareth killed my heir in retaliation – my male, you understand, females hardly being worth a warm bucket of spit in your traditional packs -- and I killed him. It was... all very fast. But I created a power vacuum and had to fill it, out of self-preservation."

Jeremy took the story in, considered the faces of the werewolves around him, and nodded. "I understand," he said. "You're a better leader than the first might have been, but you're also even more dangerous. I'm not sure if I'd rather count you as an ally or an enemy, Ben Skoll."

"You and everyone else," he said. "Don't worry, we have people keeping an eye on us. An upstart of an unnamed like me would certainly take over another's pack if I had the chance, after all," he added, and shrugged. "Unified pack is not my ideal, shouldn't be anyone's. Be certain of this: I'm only a danger if my pack is being threatened."

Jeremy shrugged, relaxed then. "Then we should be fine, Ben. I'm no threat to you or any of your pack. I just have questions." He paused to formulate the exact idea, to explain exactly what he meant to do so as not to offend, now that he'd proven he wasn't a real threat. "I want to know about all of the packs. As much as you can tell me."

Ben regarded Jeremy for what seemed like a very long time, when Gemma broke the silence that was slowly becoming tense. "Other packs are boring, you should talk about ours more."

"Well, true as that may be," Ben started slowly, slightly amused, "I have to ask. Are you compiling the information as a matter of... personal reference?"

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. "If you're asking if I'm a reporter, no, I'm not," he said, laughing.

"Yeah. Because Ben _hates_ people who need to know things just because. Hypocrite," Keith broke in jokingly.

"You know, all the editorial is making it hard to have conversation with the guest," Ben returned in a similar tone.

Jeremy looked around with a slight smile, though it fell as he realised he would do best to be candid. "I want to understand," he said, "so I can enter my own pack at some point, and figure out how to end my Father's reign. Not patricide, just... an end." He tensed, the wolf disliking the squirming feeling of betrayal. "You may be dangerous, but _Fenrir Greyback_ is worse."

A brief, but uneasy silence settled over the room, and Ben finally recovered and said, "Your father certainly is out to make a miserable time of it for our sorts. You should have mentioned that much in the first place."

Jeremy couldn't quite believe what he'd heard, but it made sense, so he slowly grinned. "You're the first pack I've visited," he said. "I have a lot to learn and I ... think I know how to use it once I've got it. If you're willing to help me."

"Well then," Ben answered, "let us talk, Jeremy Curenton. If there is an answer I can give, it will be yours."

Jeremy took a seat on the floor, withdrew a scroll of parchment from his pocket, ink and a quill, and looked up at Ben as he prepared everything. "Tell me who you know and what you know about them," he said simply. "Who's related to who." _What is pack. What the hell is it?_

"Broad category," he said. 

"So start with us," Sky suggested, and prompted Jeremy to start. "Skoll."

"Skoll," Ben echoed. "A man of few words and a contemporary of Greyback - Fenrir's father, that is. Not a supporter of the unified pack."

"Explain unified pack to me," Jeremy said after a moment. "I've heard about it but no one wants to explain it. They're afraid of it."

"Not without reason," he said. "It's a theory that werewolves would be stronger and better as a race if instead of several, smaller packs, there was one large mass pack. The implicit idea is that if werewolves banded together in such a way, they would be better off standing against wizards -- or could even become strong enough to overtake them."

"And Greyback believed in that," Jeremy said aloud, as he took furious notes on the unified pack idea and then the story of Ben Skoll's ascension to power, what they'd mentioned of his Father. "And Fenrir believes in it, I know that, he's ... wouldn't the main question of a unified pack be who leads it?"

"You would think," Ben echoed dryly. "But if you think Fenrir would let anyone else take that chance, then you've certainly got another think coming." 

"Not very keen to share power, Fenrir," Skylar said, with Gemma settled at her side.

"Unless we're talking about the witch," Keith murmured.

"Rumours," Ben reminded him.

Jeremy looked up immediately at that. "A witch?" he asked. Though it sounded impossible, it would explain a lot. "What's this about a witch?"

"It's hard to say. The rumour is that a witch has been staying with the Greyback pack, and that Conor went himself to check things out. But we haven't heard anything recent, so what she's doing there is hard to say," Ben said.

"Who's Conor?" Jeremy asked, then amended his question a split second later upon remembering. "He's another unnamed pack leader, I know that much, can you tell me anything else? They seem secluded, for lack of a better word."

"Well, he is that," Ben said slowly, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "Conor... was an unnamed of the Greyback pack, and took his wolves to start his own pack. It was... before I took over the pack, at least. They've become quite strong, and they're not your average pack, either."

"Oh?" Jeremy really didn't want to show his ignorance, but it was... difficult not to, when you were ignorant. He stressed what knowledge he knew. "I supposed an unnamed would run a pack differently."

"Don't make such a face, Ben, they were perfectly charming while they were here," Skylar said with some amusement, and spoke to Jeremy. "They came right after Ben became the pack leader."

"Conor and his trinity of support," Ben added, not having felt particularly charmed by the visit. "A female first, his heir, and a witch who lives with them. No one is sure why, they don't share that detail, and considering they came to see if I was a threat, I didn't think it was a good idea to be aggressive with the questions."

Two witches, and hadn't Conor been mentioned as having ventured out to talk to Fenrir? A witch had attacked him, and there was Briony. If that was even her real name. Jeremy nodded at Ben absently. "Do you know any werewolves named Briony?" he asked, point-blank.

Ben studied Jeremy for a moment, wondering if he was kidding, and Skylar began laughing. Keith coughed to cover his amusement. "Briony is Conor's named first," he said over the laughter, "I take it you've had the pleasure?"

Jeremy released a short breath, not sure what to feel at that revelation. "She tried to kidnap me and take me to her pack, and then my guess is one of those witches tried to kill me."

As Ben remembered her, he somehow doubted that Jane could have attempted to kill a cockroach let alone another human being, but then again who knew? "Interesting," he remarked. "Well, Conor's witch has been with them for many years. She's part of their unusual pack. Fenrir's witch is a recent development, and of all the packs in Britain, he would have been the last to let one become part of the pack."

This was all so impossible. Could he ever really understand this, or get out to this and the other packs enough to get his mind around it? Jeremy bit the end of the quill and stared at his notes. "Then why did he let one in?" he asked, failing to hide his confusion. "If he believes so much that werewolves are superior, why would he allow a witch into his pack?"

"Nobody knows for certain," Ben said. "Everyone's keeping an eye on it, like a box of dynamite."

There was a short silence in the room. "There is a rumour," Keith spoke up, and heads turned to look at him. "It was said that... she could be working with You-Know-Who. Just a rumour," he added quickly.

The wolf squirmed at such a revelation -- such a possible betrayal -- but Jeremy ignored its fervid racial loyalty and said, "You-Know-Who has the giants on his side, so... no surprise if they're trying to get us. And Fenrir being Fenrir, well." He made a face to indicate his opinion of that.

"I suppose You-Know-Who could do worse when it came to that," Ben said slowly, skeptic, still trying to wrap his brain around it. "But still..."

"No kidding," Keith echoed, before repeating hurriedly, "Just what I heard."

Gemma reached out and pulled slightly on Jeremy's sleeve. "There's more on our tree," she pointed out, looking at the names he'd written so far.

Jeremy was startled, but nodded. "Tell me more, then," he said, drawing what he guessed the correct lines to be.

"KEITH!" an urgent call came from the corridor.

Keith started at his name, although there was no doubt in the room who was behind the call. Keith cast a glance at Ben, who gave him an expectant look in return. "Here, Rory," Keith called back.

"Keith's?" Jeremy asked Gemma, a little wryly.

Gemma nodded quickly. "Whenever Keith goes somewhere Rory makes like he's not coming back ever."

Rory rushed in and sat next to Keith. "They're saying there are Death Eaters out at the Den and that's where you said you were going," he said, "but you're _here_ so they must be lying."

The combination of agitation and relief practically emanated off of Rory and his wolf. Keith tried to calm him down, but his excitement was more contagious than not. He chortled in return. "Who told you that? Cort? No, I think the Death Eaters have disappeared," he said. "Never fear."

"The Den's safe," Jeremy spoke up. "I promise you that." He looked up at Ben after that, and added, "I'm going to figure out what's going on and I'm going to fix it, if you'll help me."

Ben eyed the younger man -- although he thought that was a somewhat generous designation, Jeremy was no more than eighteen if he was a day. But there was no wolf out there with half a brain and an ounce of loyalty within them who would want a Death Eater in their ranks, bringing more trouble than they were surely worth. "Why don't we just keep talking, Jeremy Curenton. We'll see what is of help to you and what is not," he said slowly, wanting to trust, but not too much too soon.

A careful alliance, that was more than Jeremy could have asked for. He'd come to the right pack, he was sure. "I'll be back in a week if you'll have me," he said.

"Who's that?" Rory whispered to Keith.

Keith's mouth was crooked upward in a half-smirk. His instincts were always right. "He's the one I went to see, Rory," he whispered back. "He's going to be a friend."

"Then we have an agreement," Ben said to Jeremy, giving a reassuring smile.

Jeremy dropped his quill and rose to offer his hand to Ben Skoll. "I'm honoured."

Ben resisted the urge to laugh, even a bit. He clasped his hand to seal their newfound, tentative friendship. "Then you are welcome in this pack house."

Jeremy sent him a grin before going back to get his parchment. "Hey, Gemma! Do you want to give me some help here?"

Skylar rolled her eyes. "She'll never leave you alone," she warned Jeremy, giving Gemma's plait a light tug.

Gemma wrenched her hair from Skylar's hand, and ignored her. "Yes. I will," she told him with as much dignity as she could. "It'll be easy," she further promised.

Jeremy tried not to think of Erin. "I bet," he said, ironically. "Well, let's get a start." This was going to be the least easy thing he'd ever done in his entire life.

Gemma went with Jeremy to the window where there was plenty of light for writing by, narrating their pack's family tree like a little parrot as he obediently began taking everything down. Skylar and Ben looked at Keith expectantly. "Well?" Keith demanded quietly. "Was I right, or was I right?"

"I expect the day that you are wrong, there won't be enough of us left for it to matter," Ben said dryly. "But bringing someone here is a serious matter, Keith."

"I know that." He spoke as seriously as Ben did. "But if I hadn't believed his intentions were anything less than honourable or thought it wasn't going to end well, he wouldn't be here. I would have brought him to you."

"I'm sure he wouldn't," he replied back, but still gave Keith a further significant look before turning to answer Gemma's first call for help filling in the blanks.

~*~

_December 1978_  
Damocles left The Leaky Cauldron after interviewing yet another excited, recent Hogwarts graduate for the small team he was allowed to put together in order to supplement his potion-making team -- a small one, but small ones were usually the best, he'd found. He wasn't sure whether he was going to hire this one yet or not; she'd been bright and eager, but they might be able to get on with one assistant. It would have to wait for the next meeting, though they'd had several already.

He arrived at the hospital shortly thereafter, just when he said he would. "What today, Shelly?" he asked the trainee, picking up two files.

"A man with a bite, won't say what gave it to him. Might be illegal," she replied. "And a visitor in your office, at your first convenience."

Owen, again? "We can let Mr. Illegal Breeder sweat for a few minutes," he replied, turning towards his office. "If he stops breathing, come and get me."

Shelly took a minute, hesitated, and then hurried after Damocles. "I should warn you, the visitor -- "

"I can take care of it, Shelly," he said in a Don't Argue With Me tone. She made a vaguely apologetic gesture and went back down the hall. He made the rest of the walk to his office and pushed open the door, "Owen, I have a flat, you know, you don't have to visit me at -- " Sitting in the chair on the visitor's side of his desk was most ostensibly not Owen. "Good afternoon, Miss Umbridge."

Dolores Umbridge turned a welcoming smile towards the Healer, despite what she'd just heard. "Ah, Mr Belby. Please sit! I've been waiting for some time, but it was no trouble. I hope you're not disappointed, perhaps Mr Curenton is busy with his charity work."

"My apologies for your wait, then, I was meeting with a possible final team member." He went to his desk and placing the patient file on the corner for later. "I'm - well, no, I am simply not used to many others making themselves at home in my office." Shelly had tried to tell him. He was going to stop cutting her off mid-sentence.

She clapped her hands girlishly and placed them neatly in her lap. "Oh, good, so the project is moving forward? I had to come check on you, we're all so very interested to see what you have planned, if anything."

"Research is being conducted, and the team is being put together, we need to put together a plan of attack so to speak." Just thinking about how this needed to progress was giving him a bit of a headache, but there was also an element of excitement to it. "We want to start experimentation with actual potion-making shortly after the New Year.”

She frowned fractionally, giving Belby a curious look. "The New Year? Well, we were hoping for something to report to the press soon, you know, but if you're certain you can't move things along, it can wait."

"Depending how fast we can put things together," he said. "A lot of preliminary work, concurrent research, and we're trying to account for red tape." That was the problem with working for the government: plenty of time-consuming red tape to go around.

"Oh, yes, the paperwork." Dolores seemed to try to look something near apologetic, but apparently couldn’t dare go that far away from a smile. "I do know many people who share my interest in this project who may be of help, so if you're interested, I could share a few names. The end of this scourge is of course a common goal."

Damocles finally sat down, just as the part of his conscience that sounded scarily like Owen a lot of the time began yelling and hopping around. "I don't know that I would use the word scourge, Miss Umbridge. But you are correct otherwise."

"Then you support the freedom of the wild werewolves, as they run about and attack children, including those of your questionable friend Mr Curenton? The savage instincts are naturally to blame," she said in her best sweetly apologetic tone, the one to soothe and smooth disagreements. "You and I and those of the same mind, our aim is to calm or eliminate those instincts."

He thought of Erin and Jeremy, and how he'd brought them up in conversation that day when Owen had come to visit him in his office. "Yes, of course," he said quickly, anything to get the subject closed. "Another matter is test subjects." That was a thin line to walk if Damocles had ever seen one.

"Oh, yes. We should have no trouble with that," Dolores dismissed with a wave of her hand, smiling. "There are many desperate werewolves who would do anything for some relief from the burden of their condition. We had hopes that a deal could be worked out with St. Mungo's, for newly infected werewolves to receive a dose..."

"With compensation and their permission, of course," he added, as though there wouldn't even be a question about that, but he wasn't so sure.

That was not what Dolores Umbridge wanted to hear. "Would there be a question of their permission?" she inquired, at her most innocent. "It would be questionable to not give these new werewolves relief from their condition."

"It's... legality, medical. Giving a medicinal potion, especially an experimental one to someone who hasn't given permission isn't legal. Not to mention ethical. Besides, offering monetary compensation is substantial motivation, and they would have consented. Overall less messy and more agreeable for all parties involved."

"Yes, yes. Once you explain the nature of the treatment, no sane person would choose anything different -- and of course you'd advise them to choose the treatment, as once it's perfected it would be madness to let them leave without it."

"Ideally, yes," he agreed with as congenial a smile as possible. It began to occur to him that there might be no combination of potions ingredients that could calm the wolf in transformation. Not the greatest time for doubt to strike. "We're hoping that constructing the basic potion will be the easy part, refining it will take a little more time. But that was in the first report we composed, so excuse me for repeating myself."

"I just wanted to make absolutely certain that things were going well for this project and that you didn't need any further... funding, or personnel. The Department is more than willing to offer resources for you, as we're most eager to see the results." She smiled at her last words and stood. "Now I have other business to attend to, but I hope you'll keep in contact, Mr Belby!"

He stood as well out of habit -- well, and he also had that possibly illegally-animal-breeding patient to see to. "We shall, certainly. Have a pleasant day."

"The same to you," Dolores conceded, nodding obsequiously and withdrawing from the room in seemingly girlish good spirits.

Damocles released the breath he hadn't realized that he'd been holding and slid down in his chair. Shelly poked her head in the door and cleared her throat. "If you're going to tell me that you tried to tell me, then please save yourself the trouble. Just verbally run me over next time."

"I will do that, thank you, but actually I was coming to tell you that our friend's bite is turning black and purple around the wound," she replied.

"Oh dear, that can't be good news," he said, picking up the file and coming around his desk. Time to get a move on.

~*~

_January 1979_  
Commotion of one sort or another at the pack house was fine with Remus, so long as it didn't concern him. It probably should have, given his supposed status within the pack. He still didn't want it, but apparently you didn't just abdicate within a wolf pack. Still, commotion made it easier to come and go unheeded, or hopefully unheeded, at least. That was his hope when he left for the Order meeting that had been called. The message had come earlier that day, luckily while Remus was alone. He began to wonder when his luck would run out.

There was a small house in the east of England near the sea, so close that you could smell the salt on the breeze. It was here that the Order of the Phoenix convened to discuss their business as a large group when necessary. He suspected everyone else was there, due to the time. The door let him in when he placed his hand on the latch (a very difficult and advanced form of a sentience enchantment, he understood, where the door would only open for Order members; apparently Lily had done it herself). The cosy warmth and dull roar of several people talking at once in pre-meeting conversation hit him at once, and he hung his cloak on the coatrack before entering.

It seemed as though he was indeed the last one to arrive. He gravitated away from where Mundungus Fletcher was trying to sell something that was moving to Gideon Prewett, who shook his head while his brother Fabian poked it eagerly with his finger, and towards where Lily Evans sat on the end of a bench along the wall beside James, who chattered about something to Sirius while Peter listened in. "I hope I've not kept everyone waiting," he greeted her.

"Don't be silly, Remus," she smiled up at him, and then nudged James in the ribs with her elbow. "Move over you lot, Remus is here."

"I _told_ you that we'd -- Moony!" James exclaimed, slinging an arm around his wife before addressing her seriously. "I see him, Lily, no need for fiancé abuse. Haven't seen you in ages, Remus, what's going on?"

"You aren't abused, you big baby." She patted his cheek affectionately and began nudging with her hip instead.

"Yeah, for ages, the couch still has a dent in it, you know -- _okay,_ " Sirius said when James began to scoot at Lily's continued insistence. "Thought you'd dropped off the face of the earth."

 _Sort of wish I had,_ Remus thought as he dropped onto the end of the bench beside Lily. "I've just been around," he said vaguely. He couldn't bring himself to outright lie, and the truth didn't seem like an option, either. "I'm fine."

Dumbledore finished a short conversation with Alastor Moody and turned to greet the Order of the Phoenix all assembled, from what he could see. "Good evening, all, everyone's here, I see?" he called loudly above the many friendly conversations.

Alice raised her hand to get his attention. "I'm not sure Marlene is here yet, sir," she added, with a glance around to make certain her assessment was correct. "Or Mr Dearborn."

"I'm here, Mrs Longbottom." Caradoc looked rather amused at being overlooked, grinning at the girl's embarrassment and quick apology.

"'swhat you get for skulking," Benjy Fenwick told Caradoc smartly, tipping back on the back two legs of his chair.

The door opened again and slammed shut as the remaining member, Marlene McKinnon burst in. She looked as all eyes turned to her and she said, "Oh sod it, I'm late amn't I? Sorry everyone, Headmaster."

Dumbledore smiled and directed her into the room. As a more serious mood settled over the group, he began to speak. "I believe we are all here now, so let the meeting commence. What progress has been made since our last meeting, what have we learned?"

Frank raised his hand to just get attention before he began to speak. He would not be so insistent, except this had been pressing the back of his brain since the pieces began putting themselves together. "As some of you know, Alice and I have been heading the investigation on the break out of Fenrir Greyback. We've found..." he hesitated. "There is an extensive amount of Death Eater involvement. At least two in MLE and one in the Werewolf Registry, who knows if there were any more, and there's reason to believe that he's still working with the Death Eaters." He looked at Alice if there was something that she had to add.

"It's... been difficult and most of what we have is hints," Alice said honestly, her voice halting. She hated any semblance of speaking in front of an audience of her peers. "But we've concluded that there's likely Death Eaters ... with him. Working with him. Our witness has insinuated as such, that that was their intent in releasing him, and another witness has only led me to believe this is still the truth. Now Greyback's pack doesn't hold substantial power," she added, "so this isn't as bad as it could be, but we might have trouble on our hands in a few years."

"It's been miles of guesswork," Frank admitted, "but very educated guesswork, and it's something that we need to pay attention to before it blows up in our faces."

While Frank and then Alice spoke, Remus was putting together a few pieces of his own. _It's Alecto Carrow, she's part of all this. She's the next link in the chain to Greyback._ "This is bad," he muttered to himself.

Unfortunately, it was just enough to catch Lily's attention. "What is it, Remus?" she whispered.

He hesitated just a little too long to be convincing. "It's nothing."

"Remus," she said in a tone that he recognised as the tone she'd used when taking points from students, "if you know something, _speak up._ "

James recognised the tone, too. "Hey, Remus, stop talking during class," he joked in an undertone.

Alice caught a glimpse of the conversation and took pause at the realisation that Remus was actually a werewolf right there in the room with them. If he knew something... She shifted, uncomfortable in pointing this sort of thing out right in front of a group even as accepting as this one. "Excuse me?" she asked, instead of anything more intrusive.

This was exactly what he hadn't wanted. He glanced to his friends down the bench, all watching him with the same expectant look at everyone else. With a deep breath he steeled his nerve and began to speak. What were Gryffindors for, anyway? "I could perhaps fill in some of those blanks," he said. "I've -- for awhile I've been living with Greyback's pack and -- there's a witch. She's not a werewolf, she's a Death Eater. Alecto Carrow." The name brought up noises of recognition in some of the younger Order members.

Dumbledore silenced everyone with a wave of his hand. "Has anyone been looking into Alecto Carrow's whereabouts or actions, and can help Remus or Frank and Alice with their missions?" he asked.

"She and her brother are the persuaders," Caradoc spoke up, a bitter tone in his voice. "They brought the giants to You-Know-Who's cause and there's suspicions that they were involved in the shift of the goblins as well. I wouldn't be surprised if Greyback and half his lot already serve You-Know-Who."

"She's -- well, bloody mad," Remus said. "I've never seen her brother at the house, but he has been mentioned so I would assume that he's been there."

"Has a Vow been mentioned?" Frank broke in.

Remus racked his brain and then shook his head slowly. "No, nothing."

"A Vow?" Dorcas Meadowes balked in going on, not entirely certain if her instinct in this was right. "You don't mean an _Unbreakable_ Vow, do you? You mean we have a chance to stop him?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Alice responded, her tone cool. "Yes, it is an Unbreakable Vow, and yes, we know the terms. But using this information for anything more than what we have would be _unethical._ "

"Alice is absolutely right," Frank said.

"Oh yeah, because mass genocide is so _ethical,_ Death Eaters are very worried about that," Benjy said. "Kill the bastards before they kill you, what sort of soft Quaffle game are _you_ playing?"

"The one where I can look at myself in the mirror in the morning," he replied dryly. "We can't use that information for that sort of resolution."

"I think," Remus interrupted, "that it hasn't been expedient for Fenrir to try and break his Vow, yet. They haven't asked him to do anything that compromises the pack or that he wouldn't do otherwise." The wolf was balking, and it was giving him a headache.

James sent a look of disbelief at Remus -- their Moony wasn't this secretive or this accepting of _monsters_ like Greyback. "So why can't you make him break it? You're smart, you could talk him into it."

"No one is making Greyback break that Vow," Alice said in her loudest, most commanding voice. "It's underhanded and unethical to murder someone in that fashion -- in _any_ fashion." _We would be as bad as them._

Short of the Death Eaters, there was nobody who made Fenrir Greyback do _anything,_ least of all Remus. The power that the tie gave Greyback over Remus could be affected in the opposite direction; wolves did it all the time with each other with varying degrees of effectiveness, but the imperium Fenrir held trumped all. "It's not a matter of trickery, James," Remus said, and looked away.

"Well, _that's_ bloody peachy, we've got a very dangerous werewolf bound to Death Eaters on pain of death, what's next?" Sirius asked rhetorically.

Questions of Remus's motives aside, there were other things to address. Alice forced herself to be calm, Aurorly, and focused on Remus. "Where is Greyback living?" she asked, firmly kind. Whatever reason he had to be there, he was there, and that was further than she and Frank were after all this time. "Where is Greyback?"

Remus was sure that Alice didn't mean to make him feel like he was on trial. She was rather nice, as far as he could tell a decent human being, and a top notch Auror on top of all that, but he felt like he was about to go on a witness stand in his own defence. He forced the words out of his mouth, tripping over his tongue as they went. "I -- I can't say."

"Why not?" James asked too loudly considering his proximity to his friend, suspicion tingeing the words. "Maybe they can do something about _him_ if they know."

"Get off him, Potter, he's not a Death Eater," Dorcas cut in. "Headmaster -- "

"Does anyone have anything further to say on the subject of werewolves, Carrows, or Fenrir Greyback?" Dumbledore said, with a nod towards Dorcas.

"The Carrow bitch spat in my NEWT potion at the practical exam," Benjy muttered.

"I think what Benjy means to say is no, Headmaster, we're finished," Marlene interpreted without even looking up from where she was taking notes on the meeting in one dead language or another – or, supposedly dead.

When Dumbledore nodded to him, Moody gave his wooden leg a thump loud enough to catch the attention of the group and went on to gruffly speak. "There's a Dementor loose on the edge of a Muggle city, any volunteers to clean it up before it gets worse?" He sent a challenging look to the group.

Alice took Frank's hand and squeezed it, sending a smile his way and a more focused look on Remus Lupin, the new witness to break. If anyone could do it, they could. For now, there were other concerns outside of their current case, a detail sometimes easy to miss as an Auror.

~*~

_March 1979_  
Morning crept up quietly on the house of the Greyback pack. Few of the werewolves woke until the morning was bright, but Fenrir was both an early waker by nature and a vigilant Father by instinct. Conor had never been lazy, no bastard pack leader could ever be called that, so it hardly surprised Fenrir to find him awake in the empty common room, staring at the vision of the sunlight in the hills. 

"A coincidence to find a refuge this remarkable while a fugitive," Conor said, without turning to face the younger pack leader. 

"It's nothing." Aesthetics and scenery were a waste of time. Fenrir approached him without hesitation, unimpressed by the whimsy Conor was displaying. The old man got softer every year. "This is my pack's house, I've never _had_ to move, and I never will. Our house is safe." 

"Thanks to the witch, I'm sure." Conor spoke softly, still not facing Fenrir. It was best to speak to him at times like this, when he was simply _Fenrir,_ the werewolf and friend Conor had known for the past eleven years, not Fenrir Greyback, the fugitive and Death Eater ally. He wasn't so bloodthirsty on one-on-one terms, without his women whispering plots and bloody inspirations into his ear.

Fenrir remained unimpressed, taking a seat beside Conor on the floor. "You can't tell me you wouldn't do the same to protect your precious pack. Fight wizards with wizards. And when they win this war..." 

Conor turned his head to look at Fenrir at last. "When they win this war? When did you gain an interest in the affairs of wizards? It hardly matters who wins any of their wars, because no sides are on our side."

Fenrir's wolf refused to accept the insult and his ego was more than willing to accept that as an excuse to fight. "None of us ever promised to make ourselves useful," he defended. "We have to make sacrifices to make progress, Conor, how far have we come hiding in the hills, what have we got for it? Nothing! We’ve got nothing! We cower in fear -- "

"So instead of cowering in fear, we cower in servitude, making concessions for the sake of the entire race?" Conor grew exasperated, rude, spoke in razor tones. The hypocrisy was blatant and yet Fenrir was blind to it. _Do something,_ his wolf urged in its usual impatient way, and for once he heeded it. "Isolation might not be working, but cooperation never has!" 

Of course, now his pack brother's true opinions came out, what Fenrir knew the other man was thinking the entire time. "I am no wizard's servant," he spat in order not to yell and wake his werewolves. "We stand side by side, you've seen the witch and her devotion to us, unlike any of the wizards or witches before -- " 

"They'll throw you aside like every wizard has thrown us aside," Conor said. He glanced back to the beautiful scene outside, but even that couldn't distract his mind from the ugly truth now being revealed. The wolf wanted to run, but from the restlessness of being caged, not the fear of death. Soon enough, he would be home. "You're a fool to think otherwise. Maybe your precious witch cares for this pack alone, but wizards will never understand or consider us equals. The Dark Lord doesn't want you." 

"On the contrary," a third voice cut in. Fenrir's head snapped in the direction of Alecto's voice to see her standing there, gaunt and nearly entirely depleted of her usual wicked energy. "The Dark Lord wants you now," Alecto went on. Her fingers jerked as her hand clenched more tightly over her left forearm. "He's called me and He wants you to come with me. Now." 

"Now," Fenrir repeated, his eyes meeting Conor's for a single second before he looked back to the witch with slight amusement. "What if I say no? I have my own business to take care of." 

Alecto showed no amusement at the apparent joke but just set her jaw. No jokes, no flirting, no affection in these times, it seemed. "You refuse, you die. Your orders are clear. Come with me, Fenrir."

"Your orders are clear, Fenrir," Conor said under his breath, giving his head a disbelieving shake. When Fenrir sent him a warning look, Conor's wolf flared and he gave Fenrir a light shove that might once have been brotherly. "Your master calls for his dog." 

Fenrir stalked away from him and towards Alecto, yanking her hand away from its grip on her arm. "What are you whimpering at? You're always bragging about your scars -- " She let her hand fall and he finally saw the Dark Mark black, livid, angry on her arm. He stared at it, all insults driven from his mind. 

"His call," Alecto said, with an indication that this was nothing new. "Until you began this little spat, Fenrir, He didn't question my loyalty or yours, but now His eye is on you. You had better please Him." 

"Take me there," Fenrir snapped with a harshness born of fear and the wolf's anxious edge. "Take me there with your magic, witch, make yourself useful for once." 

Alecto let her hand rest on his arm, and he tried to catch her eyes at the familiar touch, but she didn't respond. He opened his mouth to speak but then found himself thrown into the damp darkness of the witch's magic -- Apparation -- and their arrival into a room that was too bright after that dark place of transit. "Is that Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who's served me so graciously these past years?" a high voice questioned. 

"It is, my Lord." Alecto removed her hand from him and strode out to kneel, cower before her master. Fenrir set his eyes directly on the creature, a half-man with white skin and strange eyes, long fingers and a thin body. What monster had these wizards pledged themselves to, what sort of creature had Fenrir had pledged his life and faithful service to? "This is Fenrir Greyback, your faithful servant, who will soon deliver the entire race of werewolves to your service." 

Fenrir averted his eyes from the Dark Lord at this with an angry start at her words, her self-serving words. Betrayal, the wolf knew that bitter taste. Of course her words had all been the true bewitchment, the promise of an equal alliance, and all she wanted was to deliver a trophy to her leader. "In return for -- " he began in a snarl that made men cower, but Alecto shot him a frantic, angry glare that struck him dumb. 

The Dark Lord seemed unaffected by either of his servants' words, set upon getting his own purpose across now that introductions were done and the stage was set. "You think of me as a monster, Fenrir Greyback, but I am your Lord, and disobeying me will mean your death," the man said, his thin hand raising in a gesture of how easily _that_ could be done. "I am immortal. I am a god, werewolf, I am your god. Kneel." 

It was an order. He could not disobey, not with this wizard creature who could see into his head and kill him without a second thought. The wolf resented it, screaming and struggling all the while, but Fenrir fell to his knees beside Alecto, hair hanging in his face and brushing the stubble of his cheek. This was no wizarding father who could shout all he liked about _obey me, Jacob, I am your father and you will respect me,_ this was no Greyback, the leader who disciplined out of love for his pack, this was a god, terrible and full of wrath. "My Lord," he said. 

"You call me a monster?" the Dark Lord said with an amused sneer. "I mean to cleanse the world of those who are inferior. Weak. I am no monster, Greyback. My Death Eaters call you a monster, a half-breed. Personally, I think you're an animal, just like the rest of your kind." 

_Dangerous creatures,_ Just like Alexander Lupin. Animals, as dangerous as chimaeras. "We're definitely not wizards, my Lord, I can say that much," Fenrir said as loudly as he dared or even could with his head bowed in such discomfort, the wolf snarling and rippling along his mind to tear Alecto and this supposed god to shreds. 

The Dark Lord's laugh came again, thin and high and chill-inducing. "You think we are beneath _you?_ " he said. "You think you can defeat the _wizards._ We'll see about that. You serve me and do what I tell you, and my Death Eaters will offer you protection. You will rule your fellow animals, and be my _pet._ " There was a pause. "You find this amusing, Alecto?" 

"Not at all, my Lord, I take your honoured pet very seriously." 

The Dark Lord gave a scoff and gestured violently. "Stand, Fenrir Greyback, and approach me!" He continued to speak as Fenrir got to his feet and took the steps, dragging his feet all the way. "You've served my purpose, but on pain of death. Today we make an agreement." 

Fenrir stared at the bony chest of the Dark Lord, his new god and master, a direct refusal (or fear, maybe fear) to meet the eyes that could see right into his thoughts. "Yes, my Lord," he said, toneless to promise no real allegiance to this half-man. His allegiance was to his Father and his race only. "I'll do as you order and Alecto will keep the wizards out of my way." 

The Dark Lord made an amused sound and suddenly Fenrir hit his knees as a conscious like the Dark Lord's long fingers reached into his head. The wolf fought back. He jerked on the floor, barely recognising his fingernails gripping into the carpeting. _Stop,_ the wolf snarled. _Out, out, OUT!_

"Animals," the Dark Lord muttered. "Truer than I thought." 

_Remus. He's mine._ Laurel sobbing helplessly into his shoulder as Greyback mended her wounds. Blood in Erin Curenton's fair hair. _He's Amycus. I'm Alecto._

God but it hurt, it hurt, and he had forgotten how it was to have no control at all -- 

_Let your Father in, like a good son._

"That's right, Greyback. Let your Father in." 

"No," Fenrir hissed into the carpeting. Anything but that. His allegiance was to his Father and his race only. " _No._ " 

His Father. No. Now he could see him and hear him and so could the monster whose wand was raised right in front of him. _Once our numbers are enough, Fenrir, we can overcome them. Their wands will do them no good. All we have to do is infect, gather, and wait. The unified pack will be the salvation of werewolves_ \-- 

"Ah." 

And just like that, he was free. He panted and fell to the floor in a heap when the Dark Lord released him, and the wolf took control and comfort until Alecto's hands were on him again. 

"You are my wolf, Fenrir Greyback, and your _ambitions_ had best not get in the way of that. Alecto, take him away." 

He was being dragged from the room like a child; the wolf held full control still and stared through his eyes at the witch who dared to mother it, but Alecto only released him when they were in a dim corridor. "It gets better," she said offhand, dropping to a crouch beside him. "You get used to it." 

"What does this mean," Fenrir breathed to her as he gained control once more, the pain, confusion and humiliation still aching deep in his bones. 

She sat beside him and pressed a cold hand to his cheek. "It means that the legendary Fenrir Greyback," she began in her usual sing-song, "has now been collared, and the Dark Lord has him at His beck and call." 

He licked his lips, tilted his head back, and thought about it. "It's for the best," he said after thinking about his Father for a long moment. He would have approved of this. This was the natural progression of things and Fenrir was the only one who could withstand the pressure. Though he was collared, it was for the best, and fuck Conor and his happy, comfortable sense of Pack if he meant to get in the way of Fenrir Greyback, the Dark Lord's pet wolf. 

"That's what I say." Alecto shared a faint, unhappy smile, then leaned to kiss him. He pulled her into a kiss as eager and determined as he had once felt, and only released her from this re-energised moment when he regained full control. 

Alecto chattered on as though nothing had changed since their last comfortable moment, and it was a dark instant of transit before he saw the sun rising higher over the hills at his pack's house in Wales. Aesthetics were a waste, he reminded himself, and there were things to do. Fenrir walked loudly up the steps like the confident leader he was, the destined leader of all packs, and flung open the door of his home.


	11. Lamp of the Wicked

_For some of us there came a point when we realised that the lives we were living, with the constant fear, anxiety, and impending sense of doom… it wasn't normal. There were billions of people out there in the world living without fear, some of them your own neighbours. When you realised that you were stuck in a war, and they all knew nothing of it, it made you feel cheated. Bitter. Lonely, even. And sometimes --sometimes -- you just had to wonder if the bloodshed would never end._ Stewart Cauldwell, _A Shadow Cast By Green Light: A Wartime Memoir,_ 1984.

_May 1979_  
Things were tense in the house of Conor's Pack, but at least they were quiet. Everyone was uneasy, but at least they were reassured that their Father had a plan and would be back soon enough to enforce it. For now, the combined efforts of Geoffrey, Briony, and Jane to keep the pack at ease were successful. Geoffrey hadn't expected to have a peaceful night with Melinda, but here he was, with his girl tucked close to his chest in his narrow bed. As his eyes drifted shut in sleep he only vaguely recognised the sound of the window opening. 

The intruder ripped the blanket off of them and Melinda shrieked, her wolf in a panic and clinging to its Father; Geoffrey pushed her out of the way and got out a shout of "SOMEONE DOWN HERE, NOW!" before being choked into silence, scrabbling for some sort of hold on the attacker while being pinned to the hardwood floor. "Die," the young man said, and pain burst before his eyes. 

Briony was half-asleep in her own bed when she heard Geoffrey yelling and rather felt the terror, her heart speeding up almost immediately. She jumped out of bed and ran into the hallway, nearly colliding with Jane. "Stay back, keep that thing ready," she said, nodding to the wand clenched in the other girl's hand. Without waiting another second, she pushed against the door and let it burst open.

As fast as her heart had been beating, it stopped when she saw the intruder that had Geoffrey at his non-existent mercy. She blocked out the pain and fear she could feel vibrating in the air of the room itself. "NO," she shrieked and jumped on the only vulnerable part of Wesley, his back. She held on for dear life, scratching and pulling on his hair, anything that would get him away from Geoffrey.

Wesley fought her off with the single-minded determination of a servant hell-bent to do his duty, trying to get back to his prey, who still choked and gasped despite being freed. "Off of me," he grunted, elbowing and shoving her off of his back to the ground, doing his best to incapacitate her. "He's dead, Briony," he spoke loudly over his attack. " _Dead._ " 

No, he wasn't. She could hear him breathing (trying to breathe?) over the ringing in her ears. She kicked and lashed out with her hands, grabbing a hold of his arm and intending to pull him down with her, but she wound up pulled back to her feet instead. He was too strong. "You are not touching him again as long as I have any life left in me," she shot back harshly.

Wesley considered that and said mildly, "All right," only to grab her by the collar to pull her closer and sink his teeth into the weakest part of her neck as hard as he could.

Briony yelped and reflexively tried to back away, but she was suddenly acutely aware of exactly what kind of trouble she was in. Fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, teeth in her neck, frozen on her tiptoes. One drip of blood spurred her into action, scratching any place she could reach and shouting nonsensical things, twisting like a rodent caught in the jaws of a snake all the while.

Wesley just shoved her away to let her bleed and went back after the male only to see that he was dying, near dead, bruises rising around his neck and blood blooming on his lips. The window was still open and he scrambled for it, willing to harm himself, to reach the pack scratched to ribbons only to return with news of success.

As quickly as it had all started, it was over, and she was on the floor, dumbfounded. _He bit my neck._ She touched it gingerly, wincing, and was drawn out of her shock by the sound of choking. "Geoff," she realised slowly, and sat up, regaining her bearings. "Geoff!" she added, more urgently when no answer came, scrambling over to him.

Now that she was close to him, she could feel him slipping away. " _No_ ," she said through clenched teeth. Her wolf accepted it immediately; it was the way things were. Briony was not willing to part with her brother, her closest friend, so easily. "You're not _allowed_ , Geoff. You're not."

He reached for her hand and caught her fingers, tangling his fingers with hers, feeling too cold and distant to find any other way to say _I love you and I'm sorry._ He took a last grasp of strength to squeeze her hand and then he felt himself beginning to choke.

Briony squeezed his fingers back and laid her head on his chest. "It's okay," she murmured, trying to comfort him, touching wolves and keeping calmer than she actually felt. 

She remained there until she could no longer hear his heart beat and there were no more attempts at breathing. He was gone. She swallowed all of her own hurt and anger to back away, placing his hand respectfully on his chest. She'd forgotten they weren't alone in the room until a short sob came from the corner, and she looked up. "Melinda."

Melinda looked up without hesitation, immediately swallowing her tears. Her gaze fixed upon her dead lover and she froze like prey, unable to look away even if the first of the pack was looking right at her. Briony couldn't stand to be in the room anymore. She jumped up and turned to the door, seeing Jane with a similar look on her face to what Melinda had, although she looked to Briony. "Bri," she said slowly.

"He's dead," she blurted out. 

"Yeah," Jane replied quietly. "But... you're bleeding, come on -- "

"It's fine, it’s nothing," Briony interrupted her, but touched the bite. Blood still trickled on her neck, and she was sure there would be a scar. A constant reminder of this awful night. "That was Wesley. A... a monster, but now at least Fenrir's intentions are clear. I -- damnit, I'll have to go see Conor." She squeezed her eyes shut against her racing thoughts.

"We'll figure it out," Jane promised calmly.

"We will," she said, and moved past her, into the hallway. "Come on. We have decisions to make."

~*~

Briony's trip back to Fenrir's was worse than her trip home. She was exhausted and walking back into the lion's den. Who knew what had happened? If Wesley had been sent to kill Geoffrey, then maybe they'd killed Conor. And then she would be next, and they would take the pack. She tried to not concentrate on that part, and instead tried to think about how she was going to break the news of Geoffrey's death to Conor. No matter how she rehearsed it, there was no way to make it palatable.

She stopped not thirty feet from the door, fear overwhelming her. She did not want to knock on that door. Instead, she looked at the windows and hoped to see her Father. She reached out the best she could and waited for a flicker of recognition from him. When there was one, she waved, beckoning him outside. _Please, come out._

Conor looked out to see Briony standing outside of the window, but any comfort her presence brought was tempered with the possibilities of why she'd returned. He didn't even close his stilted conversation with Fenrir's second, Wesley, and simply left the house to greet her. He first looked her over, startled at the bandages on her neck, but when the wolf reached out to hers, he knew something had gone wrong. "What happened?" he asked.

She took a small bit of comfort that he asked, and that he could ask, rather than having to simply say it. "Geoffrey -- he's dead, Conor."

At his own pack, his instinct as Father would have been to comfort her, but so much time with Fenrir's pack left its mark. His instinct as pack leader won out, and he seized upon their connection to force an answer out even before he asked. "Who killed him?" was all he could manage to get out past the fury, the despair that his son was dead.

"Wesley," she answered in a panicked rush before he'd even finished his question. The connection was stretched to the limit, almost painful in its ferocity and she felt the flush of anxiety creeping up her neck. "He came in the night, and -- " She cut herself off, swallowing how much it hurt to think about it.

Conor shot an immediate look to the window, where Wesley still lingered in the same spot, now surrounded by the children of the Pack. "Wesley," he said, his voice ragged, and his grief combined with hers sent him into a rage. He couldn't just handle it, not now, and he threw a punch at the nearest thing, a post. Anything to keep from being sick, or doing the most practical thing, rushing in and declaring war, to avoid all that meant. "What ... did he say? What did he say, if anything?"

Briony cringed and closed her eyes before she could see the punch connect. She shook her head. "Nothing. He just said he was dead and he..." Her fingers grazed the place where his teeth had made their mark, and she shook her head again. "Nothing."

"But did Fenrir order him to do it?" he demanded, too loudly, and the buzz of conversation inside the house halted for a minute. "Did he?" He leaned on the post, exhausted, aching, and wanting more than anything to return home to his own pack. "Wait here."

She didn't want him to go back in there. Not alone. But she was not moving. "Yes," she replied quietly, taking deep breaths.

A minute passed, while Conor stared at the door and flexed his hand, and he finally looked Briony in the face for the first time since she delivered the news. "No. You come with me. Be prepared to fight, who knows what tactics they may resort to after this." He drew her close, gentle to almost apologise for the earlier onslaught.

Briony nodded. "All right. I'm ready."

"I hope you are." Conor released her and entered the house without hesitation, speaking loudly with a flourish as he entered the busy common room full of eating werewolves. "Fenrir, Fenrir Greyback," he began as he spotted the pack leader in the corner, approaching him, "whatever it is you're calling yourself to soothe your ego. We need to have a talk.”

Fenrir first looked to Wesley who appeared beside him in an instant, always the vigilant guard and faithful warrior. Only then did he look to Conor. "Do we? Well, I like a good chat as much as anyone, brother," he said with a mild, toothy smile. "Oh, your first is back, welcome," he added, greeting Briony with warmth.

"Hi," she said coldly with no real salutation to her greeting, focusing instead on Wesley.

Conor ignored Fenrir's smug posturing, instead noticing Briony's attention, and gave Wesley a scrutinising look. A werewolf with few scars who was a fighter nonetheless, a loyal second outranked by a newly-returned first. "I demand a death for the death of my second, Geoffrey. He was my heir, so I could take your first, but he was also my second, so I could also accept the death of his murderer." 

Fenrir continued to eat, seemingly unfazed and unimpressed by Conor's bold words. "Wesley, did you kill Geoffrey?" he asked his second casually after swallowing a mouthful of meat. 

Wesley gave a quick nod, his hands at rest near his knives as always without a task or food to occupy them. He looked only at his Father. "If that was his name, the ginger-haired boy, he was dead or dying when I left him."

"You came to kill him," Briony shot back with a heavy glare.

"And he succeeded. Good." Fenrir made an impatient gesture for Laurel to stop lurking behind Briony. "We're ready for war unless you'd like to surrender," he said to Conor, nonchalant. "The Dark Lord will be merciful to those who submit. Those who don't will get what they deserve." 

"You survived," Wesley noted, now staring at Briony, his hands clenching white at his sides. They released, his hands grew warm, and he smiled at her, his gaze over her shoulder at Laurel. "You're the first, you should have died, but you don't matter, you're just a girl." 

"Wesley, you two can continue this somewhere else, can't you?" Fenrir cut in with some irritation. "Kill her if you must, she'll die along with the rest at some point in the war." 

"With his hands or with a wand, Fenrir?" Conor snapped off, also eager to get the war talk on. "Should I expect Death Eaters to come out of the closets and slaughter the pair of us so you're free to take all of my werewolves and collar them for the Dark Lord as well?" 

Laurel sent an impatient gesture at Wesley, caught the knife he tossed to her in a practised motion, and held the knife to Briony's throat. "We can make it quick," she whispered to the other girl.

"Oh, clever. Can't we give it a rest on my neck?" Briony snapped, annoyed and plenty frightened but still unwilling to try any sudden movement. Instead, she looked at Conor. _We are in trouble._

Laurel pressed the knife closer to the first's throat. "Fenrir, can I kill her?" she asked keenly, leaning to look directly at her beloved Father if he gave the order.

Fenrir looked to Conor, who was staring hard at him, and said, "Not now. She's more useful alive. Conor will do anything for his little Briony." He walked past Conor to speak directly to Briony. "And doesn't he, every night, repay you for your obedience?" He leaned over Briony's shoulder to steal a kiss from an expectantly thrilled Laurel.

Briony honestly felt as though she were going to be ill, if not from the insinuation then definitely from their proximity. "Not all of us have to open our legs to feel cared for," she snapped.

"There's nothing wrong with loving your Father," Laurel scoffed. She withdrew the knife with an eyeroll, tossing it to Wesley again.

"You've made war unavoidable." Conor spoke rapidly, out of nerves and to get that subject out of the way, in hopes that it would be quickly forgotten in favour of the threat of war. "You attack, you bait me constantly, you kill my heir and then threaten to kill my first, Fenrir, if it's war you want it's war you get, I only ask that you fight as a werewolf and not as a pet -- " 

" -- War is war," Fenrir interrupted with a smile far too wicked for any topic this serious. "No rules in any fight, not in Greyback's pack, you must remember, bastard that you were. And war will be war until all submit to me as they should. Submit and your precious pack is safe."

"Let's go, Conor. All they want is a fight." Briony backed away from where she was still trapped between Fenrir and Laurel. Her skin crawled when she looked at everyone – she wanted out.

Conor couldn't find even a fraction of the Fenrir he had once known in the man that now stood before him. "You don't deserve to use your Father's name." His voice remained low, controlled, civil. "Call yourself whatever you please but don't insult the memory of your Father that way. He knew where to draw the line." 

All civility and pleasantries ended there for Fenrir. "I inherited this pack rightfully and it's not your place to question that," Fenrir snarled, "you and your pack are rightfully mine, Conor, you and your bastard pack are separate thanks to _my mercy._ " 

"War it is," Conor said quietly. "Reclaim us if it's as you bawl at us now and we're truly yours. If I win, this pack of yours may finally get the leadership it deserves." He seized Briony by the arm and began to pull her out from this house and away from these werewolves, and hopefully, from this war. 

"Protect your children, Conor, they won't be yours for much longer," Fenrir shouted after him.

Briony hardly needed dragging away from that house. They were across the grass and far enough way that the wolf presences of Fenrir's pack faded before she spoke. "I don't believe him," she seethed.

Conor continued to lead her along, his eyes on the horizon and his mind far from her words. "It's unbelievable, all right," he said, grim as though Death lingered right over their shoulders. "Now it's time to go home."

She exhaled steadily, and briefly touched his wolf with hers. Home. "They're all waiting for you," she said.

~*~

_July 1979_  
Julia had undoubtedly never been so happy in all her life. She could say this without any reservation, because she would never again have to see Isabelle Davis or any of her hags again. They would never again do anything in her presence, be it eat, sleep, giggle, or slather more cosmetics on their already done-up faces, and that was a great thing. It was, in her opinion, the very best part of being out of school forever. No more playing Quidditch bummed her out (she was nowhere near as good as Gilly was, who already had tryouts lined up), but it was well worth the price.

Of course, another upside would be getting to see Jeremy more often than holidays from school and the occasional predetermined Hogsmeade weekend when he could get out from under the watchful eye of his parents. Hopefully, anyway. Unlike the visit nearly two years previous, she owled ahead of her arrival, and was going to Apparate. She liked Apparating, it was fast, clean, and less likely to end with her hitting her head on a locked grate. Not that she blamed his mother at all, but that did not change the fact that it had hurt.

Before she had so much as seen a member of her family for a hello, she slung her camera bag over a shoulder (landscape around the house and the Den was beautiful, she'd not managed to take a single picture yet), and Disapparated, reappearing only seconds later in the semi-familiar landscape near the house. There were wards, but they were considerably weaker than they once were. Maybe they'd finally relaxed security a little? She resolved not to think anymore about it and approached the front door of the house, deciding to take the chance that he was there rather than at the Den. She raised herself on her tiptoes, straining to see in the small window along the top of the door.

Jeremy was well aware of what day it was, and that this date was the day when Julia was coming over, but he hadn't exactly correlated the two yet in his own head. A year now he'd been waiting for Julia to be out of school and free to see him whenever, so a congratulatory snog was definitely in order. There was also his new plan and purpose, one he didn't dare tell his mother and was holding off telling his father about until he could create a proper manifesto, and someone had to hear it. It was _important._

Now that he thought about it, she probably wouldn't be very interested in it: mostly a series of notes, paragraphs here and there, but largely unorganised details on a long roll of parchment, with diagrams, scribbles, all about the packs and their politics. After an interview here and a discussion there, a trip to Ben Skoll's pack and then another and another, it had escalated from curiosity into obsession. Even if he would never have a pack, he was going to understand it.

And so he found himself buried in his notes, slumped in his bed in a pair of torn and unimpressive old robes, when his mother stuck her head in his doorway and said, in a frankly unimpressed tone, "Your girlfriend is looking to get inside, if you'd like to greet her. I'm busy with the laundry."

Jeremy could only blink at her. "But. Mum, it's. Are you sure? It's -- " He paused, the realisation finally sinking in. " _Oh_.”

Brighid snorted at the expression on his face. "Yes, that's right, now go get her!" She smiled fleetingly as he threw aside the scroll and elbowed past her, only then returning to her laundry.

He opened the door and (though he had hoped for something impressive or smooth) just ended up grinning at the sight of her. "Hey, I was expecting you in the grate," he teased.

"I know better to come in that way, remember what happened last time? I thought I would expire on your mother's kitchen floor," she replied, unable to keep a grin off her face. Completely unrestrained in that moment, she threw her arms around him.

"Glad you didn't," he laughed, pulling her close. He shut the door with a casual kick and kissed her at the first instant he could.

She followed that guidance, idiotic smile on her face all the while. Yes, maybe this was the best part of being out of school, never seeing those harpies again a close second. She broke the kiss when air became more important, and pulled back only slightly. "Well hi," she said belatedly.

"Hi. All right, so we can stand here and I can snog you senseless, or I can give you your present." Option #1 was winning for him, but he was willing to go with Option #2, because then they'd end up in his bedroom. "I suppose your third option is we go up to the Den and you kick my arse at football but I like my ego too much to allow that again."

"If you were better, I wouldn't have to kick your arse," she said innocently, unable to help herself. "And of course I'd like my present, what am I, daft?"

"Somehow I knew that'd get you. You girls and your affinity for presents... it's in my room, come on, I swear it's not even a total rubbish heap like you'd think." Jeremy took her hand lightly and headed down the corridor.

"Well, you certainly can't blame me. And even mentioning it makes me curious and unable to concentrate on anything else," she said, readjusting her bag which had fallen off her shoulder since her arrival. "If you hadn't even mentioned it, we could be back in the foyer."

"Yeah, too bad, now I'll just have you in my bedroom," he said glibly, with a quick check for his mum's presence before he pulled Julia into his room. "For whatever nefarious boyfriendly purposes I'd want you here for," he added, though clearly his intentions weren't that impure, as he went immediately into the chest of drawers beside the bed.

"Do I need to close my eyes to be surprised? Is it wrapped? Is it smaller than a breadbox?" she teasingly pestered him.

"Oh, stop being such a killjoy, here I'm trying to be thoughtful and romantic," he sighed, and raised the gift in triumph upon finding it, then quickly withdrew it from her sight. "Right, so there's a story behind this, so bear with me, right?"

Julia tried to wipe the Yes, I Am Laughing At You smile off her face, but had absolutely no luck – quite pleased, but at least trying to hide it behind amusement. "All right, I'm listening."

"Keep laughing and I'll keep this for myself, you know, and we'll count another round of snogging as your gift." Even he couldn't keep a straight face at that.

She laughed and then covered it with a cough, going as somber as she could let herself. "All right. Totally serious and listening completely," she said.

He couldn't even manage a serious expression at this, but palmed the gift again and took a seat on his bed. "All right, so, picture summer of 1975, the Quidditch pitch at Bangor, big pro match. Caerphilly and Tutshill. I had two Galleons down on the match, and of course I won," he added with a smug nod to his own skills, "but more importantly, that day, I got the first ten signatures on this thing." He tapped it with his wand and tossed the now full-sized Quaffle, covered with signatures, at her. "Long story short, it's not too hard to get past a cadre of bodyguards if you time it right. Fifty-two signatures."

She reflexively reached out to catch the Quaffle with her dominant hand and simply stood stunned and half-listened while he completed his tale. Turning it over, she read some of the names -- some of them she wasn't even sure that she recognized. There was no doubt, though, a lot of work certainly had gone into this. "I don't -- _seriously?_ " she asked incredulously, glancing up at him.

Jeremy shrugged. "I'm done with it, I can't fit any more on there. Maybe between Ludo and Broadmoor there," he squinted and pointed at the area near her right pinky finger, "but it's a long shot. No, I figure I should pass it on to another fan who can really appreciate it." That, and too many memories of Erin, who'd put in more than half the work by being cute or distracting or her exasperated huff as he talked her into it. He didn't need reminders. Her silent and dusty room, still packed into boxes, was enough of one.

"I'll get Gilly to sign it once she gets a team to sign her. I'll make her fit it on there," she said, tossing it in the air experimentally. Dammit, she really missed playing already. She looked back to him, and smiled. "Thanks. This really is amazing. I think you've also given me a gift-giving complex." Without further words, she leaned over and kissed him thank you.

Just like that his mind was right on track. "Yeah, that was my goal," he said dryly, and stood. "So, ah, what now?" He noticed the parchment holding his notes on the floor and snatched it up, returning it to its spot by his bed. "Why did you bring your camera?"

"Because it is attached to me at the hip. That, and since it's actually quite beautiful around here this time of year I thought _maybe_ I could take some landscape photos before I went home. But of course if you're intent on having me in your bedroom, I can see that not happening. What d'you have there?" she asked without missing a beat.

He looked confused for a moment before catching on and picking up the scroll. "Oh, yeah. Er, I'm doing some research. Werewolf stuff. Politics, family tree sorts of things, it's... not much, really. Boring. Though I did some illegal stuff to get it." He ran a finger along the well-worn edge, gaining an absorbed sort of look. "Might write a book of my own."

"Yeah, maybe you should," she said, slinging her bag on the bedpost, setting the Quaffle on the floor, and lighting on the nearest space she could find, at the foot of the bed. "I mean, that might turn out great. Or at least interesting... what sort of things?"

He sat again, unrolling the parchment in a practised movement. "It's not very organised, but at least I can read it and that's all that matters." He touched the area where a sprawl of lines showed the pack leaders and the descent of inheritance of the packs of Britain. "It's not complete. At all. Here's the sort of family tree I'm working on, all the packs are at least vaguely related... the marks by the pack leaders lead up to as much information as I could gather on the leader and their pack, and then over here there's the breakdown of political views. A lot of this is hearsay and I have to go straight to the packs to find out if anything's true, but it's a lot of fun."

She strained to look at it, upside down as it was, but she wasn't sure that it would have made any more sense if she had been looking at it right side up. "This is an amazing piece of work," she said, unable to deny that fact. She read some of the names in Jeremy's quick handwriting, tracing a line that ended abruptly. "You... you just go? They let you? This is something new."

"Well... no." Jeremy focused on his notes on Ben rather than _that_ part. _Individualised ideas, female inheritance, leadership by merit,_ it said. Very appropriate. "Ever since I was nearly kidnapped and killed, they're not big on me running off, but it's not as though that's ever stopped me."

"Oh _right,_ I do remember you mentioning that." She gave a quirky smile and reached up to touch his temple, where she knew he bore a scar from the experience. “This book thing, with the packs and all, I think you should do it."

Though he shouldn't have been surprised, he was, and directed the conversation in a different tangent. "There's something going on," he said, voice dropping a little. "Here, in the Greyback pack -- " he turned the family tree so she could see -- "there's something going on in this side of the line and it's disturbing everything else. Not many of the werewolves will talk to me but of the few who will, they say either this pack leader, Conor, is dead, or there's some sort of war." He released a short breath, gaze flicking to the line of vague werewolf laws he had dared to write down. "Either way, I'm betting Fenrir Greyback has better things to do than chase me around. So I'm going to do it, though they'll all hate me for it."

Julia looked at the family tree and listened as he continued to talk. She glanced up once he'd finished. "I really hope so," she said. "Because... I mean, I know that you're going to do what you're going to do and I don't want to be just another person saying you _can't_ or whatever but it's pretty obvious he plays for keeps, Jeremy." She didn't realize what was going to come out of her mouth or how it sounded until it was long gone and probably into his brain. She sounded worried, and stupidly girly. "I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't even be talking right now."

Jeremy moved closer to her, slid an arm around her, and thought seriously before speaking (a rarity). "Even if he gets me, Julia, he'll regret it. I'd give him hell. No one pulls something like he does without payback." He wanted the chance to spit in Fenrir's face, he couldn't deny it. "But I've always been as good at running like hell as giving hell."

People _did_ pull what Fenrir had done and got away with it all the time; people getting away with things in the short term was all over the newspaper. Maybe they didn’t get away with it in the long run, but Julia wasn’t sure she believed in an afterlife substantial enough to give punishment or reward for deeds done in life, or any kind of force that made sure such deeds caught up with one in the end. Like she’d said, either way, he was going to do what he was going to do. Resigned, she leaned against him and gave a slight sigh. "Whatever you're doing, just be careful. Sleep with both eyes open, whatever works."

It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before, and usually the warnings just made him want to run towards danger instead of away, but he stopped that train of thought before it could progress. He rolled up his notes absently and set them aside. "Congratulations," he said with a similar sigh. "You're dating a hopeless activist. If you can tolerate me being thrown into prison or being generally ridiculed, we'll be fine."

Julia smiled slightly in amusement. Not that there was anything inherently funny in the statement... well, maybe it was a little bit funny. "It all sounds like old hat to me," she said. "Well, okay, except maybe for the jail thing, that's new territory." She had to hope it wasn't going to happen for any reason. Merlin knew that the Ministry did not waste Azkaban cells on werewolves when they did not have to.

"Oh hey, that's hilarious," Jeremy laughed, just a little insulted, but pushed the image of derision from his old mates at Hogwarts from his mind – if it was happening, he didn’t want to know. "Good, because then we're set for some time, fuck knows my occupation's not going to improve any." He leaned into her as well, silent for a moment before sharing a brilliant realisation: "You know, we're on a bed."

Julia decided that she could definitely go along with that. She didn't really care about much else right then. She looked down at the bed cover. "Oh," she said, as if she'd just realised it herself. "You know what? I think -- I think you might not be wrong about that," she added.

"I'm fairly sure I'm right about this... it is my bed." He placed an affectionate kiss on her temple. "On a completely different train of thought, you're looking exceptionally fit today," he said offhand.

"You're sure that's a _different_ train of thought?" She gave him a smirk that was a touch devious, not fooled in the least. "Sounds like it's the same train to me."

"Oh, a bloke can't even compliment his own girlfriend anymore," he said, falsely indignant. "You are looking fit, you know. It just so happens that you're looking fit on my bed."

"That is certainly very convenient," she said, unable to keep a genuine smile off her face. "So. Were you going to kiss me or... something, or keep commenting on your furniture or how I look on it? Either way..." She leaned back on her hands, ever so casually.

"Oh, shut up," Jeremy muttered but his cross tone was clearly contradicted by a smile as soon as he kissed her a bit aggressively. The wolf tensed something in his stomach and complained, but he ignored it as a matter of course. A quick nonverbal spell led to the soft click of the door closing and locking, and ah yes, he did enjoy when plans fell into place.

Julia was so far gone that she was only slightly aware that the door had shut and now they were completely alone in a closed room. Her breath caught in her throat when she felt how much pent up energy was behind his kiss. She shifted slightly to get in a better position, and returned it with what she hoped was equal vigour, all the while suppressing her instinct to find a witty comeback. 

The stupid thing was that fighting the wolf let it win, and he found himself acting too hard, too fast, too aggressive just like the cursed thing always did. He pulled himself away, just barely, releasing his grip on her with an almost guilty look. "Sorry," he said, "sorry, it just..."

One hand was on the back of his neck, fingers threaded through his hair, and the other joined it, gently holding him there. "Don't be sorry," she insisted. She had the feeling that if she let him apologise this was going to turn into another moment like their first kiss in the bookshop.

He had been a werewolf too long to let this happen. Control was all about balance, and he was good at that if nothing else. "Stop me if I hurt you," he said in a rush, almost inaudibly so he could get back to kissing her. Control. Of all the things to require at this moment.

She was able to give only the briefest of nods of assent before his mouth once again covered hers, and it all came crashing in on her. Her shoulders hit the mattress and she pushed all else from her mind.

They had no time, they could be discovered, the wolf was railing at him and in the best case scenario she was going to see his scars. He forced himself into balance, control, and simply told her in all honesty, purposefully hushed, "You're brilliant." The silence of the wolf in the moment led him to shut up and kiss her again. For the first time since he could remember, Jeremy was really, truly enjoying himself.

~*~

Remus thought that the wedding was lovely, as far as weddings went. He had never really been to one and probably wasn't a good judge, especially these days, but it could not be said that the Potter wedding had been anything less than a success. Lily looked radiant, and James certainly never looked happier, and the magic of the moment had been more than literal. It had been a perfect moment.

When he really thought about it, he wasn't sure what he was doing there.

Remus had left behind a pack that was so ready to shed blood, it was practically palpable. He felt like it had been part of the very air he breathed while there, and it left a film on his skin that couldn't be removed, one he carried with him even now.

It wasn't easy, but he broke away from his friends momentarily in order to quiet his wolf and grab a drink of champagne. It was pushing against him: _Back to the pack. They need you. Go, now, GO._ He refused it, and surreptitiously loosened his borrowed tie. He took a swallow of champagne and unexpectedly choked on it when he received a brotherly slap on the back from Sirius, who'd managed to sneak up on him. "Moony, you can't get away from us now, not when we've hardly seen you!"

"I would -- answer -- " Remus coughed so hard tears came to his eyes. "But -- I can't -- breathe."

"Ah, who needs to breathe?" Sirius asked, picking up a champagne glass for himself. "I am the best man, and I say that you are not getting away from us that easy."

"Us who? You and the frog in your pocket?" he asked, finally managing to get his breath back and coughing under control.

"Don't talk about him like that, he's a very sensitive little amphibian," Sirius chided jokingly, and waved to James, who was talking to Mary MacDonald while Lily took a spin on the dance floor with Peter.

James waved, evaded and ducked away from a nice but actually dull conversation with Mary because Remus had bothered to show up and that was more than worth ditching a boring conversation. He fixed his tie again and walked up to his mates with the sort of swagger he always got when he was in dress clothes. "Look what the dog dragged in," he said, grinning at Remus. "Hey, Moony."

Remus made a concerted effort at smiling. "Hey," he said. "Congratulations, James, it's all... amazing," he finished. 

"I _know,_ I'm kind of amazed myself." Sirius grinned widely. "You should have made the stag night, Moony. I swear your wedding experience is not going to be complete without it."

"All thanks to you, Sirius, I swear it, you did something right for once," James laughed at Sirius, then nudged Remus. "A bit of champagne, you need to loosen up, mate!"

"I'm working on it," Remus assured him, half-raising the glass in mock toast fashion. "The last time I took a drink, though, Sirius sneaked up on me and I inhaled half of the glass."

"I did not sneak. This is not an occasion for sneaking," Sirius said. "Look at these shoes. These are not sneaking shoes."

"You have overcome the handicap your shoes have presented with amazing proficiency," he answered dryly.

"Not practising your constant vigilance, are you, Remus?" James said, just as dry, and picked up a champagne for himself.

Oh, if James only knew. "Auror Moody would be disappointed, I know," he answered, and took a drink to avoid further banter.

James drank in avoidance as well. "Hard man to please," he said, flippant.

"Oh come on. No business today," Sirius said. "Or I'll... well, I don't know what I'll do but you probably won't like it. No business," he repeated, menacingly.

"Oh yeah, what'll you do, limp over at me in your dress shoes?" James challenged, smirking.

"Yes. And you will be _terrified,_ " Sirius said solemnly.

There was a silence over the three for a moment. Remus was desperately trying not to laugh. It wasn't that funny, it was _stupid_ if anything, but maybe he thought it would be nice to laugh at anything. The dam broke and he snorted, dissolving into laughter. James bit the corners of his mouth as he glanced aside at Remus, then he started to snigger into his hand.

"... Well okay, I didn't think that it was that funny," Sirius allowed.

Remus sighed and forced himself to calm down. "No, you're right," he said. "It wasn't funny. Just lame."

James shrugged, but flung his arms open at the sight of his gorgeous bride. "Look at you," he said, "I swear you get prettier each time I see you today."

"He knows she's stuck with him now, right?" Peter checked with Sirius, sending Remus a nod and no other greeting.

"She could still up and leave if someone better looking comes along," Sirius said matter-of-factly. "I mean, I think we all know there's only one bloke in the room who fits that description, but..."

"Sirius, shut up," Lily said good-naturedly, giving James a kiss before turning to look at Remus. "Remus! I'm so glad you made it," she added, and moved to kiss him on the cheek and embrace him. "I was so afraid you wouldn't show, and that simply wouldn't do, would it?"

He embraced her in return, one hand on her back. He released her quicker than he would have liked to -- he felt more out of place standing beside Lily than by anyone else in the room. "I'm glad I could come," he said. "You look wonderful, and congratulations."

"I suppose we clean up all right," she said, and looked back to James with a grin.

"I cleaned up, you always look this great," James swore, a hand to his heart as he grinned back.

"Must be really afraid of the competition," Peter said barely under his breath.

"Well, look at her and look at him. He should be scared," Sirius joked.

"Stop it, all of you!" Lily scolded them without any real malice. "No competition left, and he knows it."

"There, from the bride herself, you can't do much better than a Potter," James concluded.

"And there's no arguing with the bride, it's my day," Lily added brightly, kissing him again. "And I say that Remus is going to come dance with me. Come on, no arguments!" she added when she practically saw the beginning of a protest forming in Remus's brain. 

"Well, if it's no arguments," he had to say, and he swallowed the rest of the champagne in his glass before setting it down.

"No arguments. Let's go," Lily repeated, reaching for his hand and pulling him along, and they left James, Sirius, and Peter standing there.

"No arguing with the bride," James echoed, and took another drink.

Peter spoke quietly, blended back between them with a glass of champagne in his nervous hands as well. "He could've been dead, we didn't hear from him for months," he said under his breath.

"Might've thought that a time or two," Sirius said in agreement, pensively tapping the side of his glass with one finger. "Keep wondering if I'm going to wake up one morning and he's just going to be passed out on the couch, but..."

"But all we know is..." Peter shook his head and took a drink instead of going on.

"We know he's one of us, Dumbledore trusts him, and it's not easy for people with his problem," James said in a quick attempt to fill the awkward silence Peter left.

"Well, yeah," Sirius said, as though that should be evident. "But does that mean that he can't talk to us? I mean, who's avoiding who, here."

James entertained the thought for a moment, but it went somewhere he didn't dare think about, not today. "Not at my wedding, mates, not here, anywhere else but here."

"But come on, Prongs," Peter said, voice strained. "He's dancing with Lily."

"I said, shut it, just a few hours, get it, Peter?"

James was right, Sirius quickly realised. This was a wedding, damnit. "Absolutely right!" he said, immediately back to being the jovial best man. "Happy occasion and all -- who needs more alcohol? I think everyone does," he answered his own question.

James held up his empty glass. "Bring me the finest booze," he declared.

"Me too," Peter added, holding up his own glass.

"The best man lives to act like a House Elf, or something," Sirius said, with a ridiculously elaborate mock bow. "Not to mention, that bartender has a set on her, am I right? No, don't answer that, Prongs, we don't need Lily to be overhearing that when you're not twelve hours wed," he added.

"Only one set in the room I'm looking at," James said cheerfully.

"And for that we pity you. Kind of," Sirius said mischievously, leaving his meaning ambiguous. "I'll be back."

"You stop looking at her rack, that's an honest woman," James called after him.

"And you made her that way!"

Several feet away, the honest woman and her rack were dancing with Remus in a friendly, comfortable silence. They had exhausted small talk -- or as much as he felt like he could. She was far too happy to hear even a sanitised version of what Remus had been up to, if he could even make himself say it. He didn’t even like thinking about it. Deep in his thoughts, he trod over Lily’s foot and he saw her wince. “Sorry,” he said apologetically.

She smiled at him. “It’s okay. The only reason my foot is so tender is because Sirius kept stepping on it.”

“I am in very good company, then,” he said, smiling slightly before falling silent again, more mindful of where her feet were.

Lily grew quiet in the face of Remus’s silence, and she finally asked, “Remus, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he immediately answered, inwardly cringing at the sound of his own voice. It was his stock answer for everything these days, one that he was growing even more uncomfortable with. “I’m okay. Things have been worse.”

She raised her eyebrow at him. “How much worse?”

Upon reflection, his lie really had sort of been a lie. He’d never really lived with a criminal who was prepared to take over other groups one by one, let alone one that considered him heir to the entire operation. “Well,” he said, unsure of what to say to that.

“We’re just wondering where you get to,” she assured him and he recognised the lilt in her tone. She was trying to keep it light, but worry weighed it down. 

He pushed down the guilt. “I’m all right, I promise,” he told her wholeheartedly. She shouldn’t have to worry on her wedding day.

She shrugged. “We’re glad we were able to get a hold of you for the wedding, is all, I mean,” she said, and smiled. It looked mostly genuine, he thought. After spending so much time with the pack, though, being able to tell their mood off their wolves and facial expressions were less than necessary and more optional for a conversation, it took Remus a moment. “We even went to your parents’ house.”

“Oh,” he said, a little surprised. Thoughts of his father, and especially his mother, washed over him even when he tried to keep them back. His first thought was to ask how they were, but that might raise more questions than it would answer. “What did they say?”

“Well, your mum was lovely, as always. James behaved himself, I was quite proud,” she said with a grin that was unmistakably smug. 

“How did you manage that?” Remus joked weakly.

“Told him that he was marrying me and if he wanted to challenge your dad for your mum he was welcome to, but I always had a soft spot for the underdog, and maybe in the case that he was victorious, you’d have a new stepmum…”

“ _Agh,_ ” Remus winced, but laughed. He laughed hard, and it felt good to do so. “Oh, my -- Lily, I don’t care if it is your wedding day, I am not going to stand here and listen to that.”

“I’d be a good stepmum, and very lenient,” she told him innocently, grinning as his laughter died down. “They said they hadn’t seen you for awhile.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He knew exactly the last time he’d seen each of them, the night that he’d run out. “That’s true. They haven’t,” he said.

“Just… something to think about, Remus? Go visit,” she urged him gently. 

Not a chance. He wasn’t sure he could face his father, Alexander, whatever his brain and the wolf wanted to call him. His father. But his mother… “I’ll think on it,” he promised her. 

Lily nodded, and they became silent again. The song slowed and ended, and she kissed his cheek and embraced him. “We’re your friends, Remus, please don’t stay away,” she said, squeezing tightly.

He stroked her back gently, careful not to screw up her dress or anything. “I will try not to,” he promised her. He pulled back from her and asked, “Shall I return you to your husband now? He looked like he hardly wanted to let you out of his sight.”

“Absolutely not, I have to go home with him,” she joked. “You and me, one more dance. Come on.”

“As the bride wishes,” he said, and twirled her clumsily as a new song began. 

~*~

Royce Wilkes liked nothing more than a spot of old-fashioned hunting, and their current hunt was surprisingly good and old-fashioned, considering the usual result he experienced thanks to an invitation from Alecto Carrow. His old friend from Hogwarts and fellow Death Eater was a fun girl, but her sense of fun was often matched with negligence regarding the moving of dead bodies that inevitably ended up with blood on your shoes. There was nothing worse than blood on your shoes, Wilkes thought.

But this hunt? This hunt, an invasion of some werewolf pack's current kennel, lived up to the glowing promise Alecto had earlier provided.

There was a scream and a sob from the next room, but it didn't keep Wilkes from firing off curses at every panicked and running werewolf he lay eyes on. "Come on, Wilkes, I told you, watch who you're hitting," Alecto complained as he shot a curse at the nearest halfbreed, a middle-aged man spiriting away two preteens and a child, this being the first break from her vigilant spot at the window, picking off any fleeing werewolves right on the lawn. "This is Fenrir's operation, not ours."

Wilkes rolled his eyes at her, only because she wasn't looking and was far too busy giggling as she added another body to the bloody heap on the lawn. "Mr Greyback can take it up with me and my wand later if he likes," he said, taking particular pleasure in stopping a panicked young werewolf's thundering steps down the stairs with a swift and painful amputation to the ankle. Wilkes couldn't keep a snigger down at the creature's cry of pain and the crunch as he fell.

"Oh what fun is that? Now he can't run away anymore, which means we can't chase them," Amycus put in, entering from around the corner. He had to hand it to his sister, this was a lot more fun than they'd ever had in their service to the Dark Lord. Giants you had to worry about not being stepped on or having your head bitten off, vampires wanted to drink blood, _anyone’s_ blood, but werewolves? Currently, they scurried like mice.

He was about to come further in but had to jump back in order to narrowly avoid being hit with a teenaged girl who had sailed down the stairwell. "Damn it, watch where you're throwing those!" he shouted.

Robert Yaxley was at the top of the stairs, lazily brandishing his wand. "Well, if you didn't stand there like this is a bloody Gobstones match..."

"Can't take all the fun for myself, can I?" Amycus smirked.

"He's crawling, it's funny," Wilkes said defensively. He nudged Alecto in the shoulder, jarring her shot to Stun a running child. "Hey, stop hanging out that window and let's have some fun! Hit him with a Cruciatus, he'll be good for a bit of fun yet."

Alecto pushed herself up and gave Wilkes a shove. "Oh, shut up, Royce! I'm trying to kill people here, if you haven't noticed. If they get loose, then what do we do? We have witnesses, you idiot!"

"Ah, that's my sister, always thinking about damage control," Amycus said, stunning one that tried to scurry away unseen. He smiled when he hit the wall head first with a satisfying crunch.

"Witnesses? For what?" Yaxley demanded. "Who's going to believe halfbreeds, and who's going to care?" If Alecto wasn't going to Crucio him, he certainly was going to.

"Other halfbreeds'll believe halfbreeds, you idiot," Alecto said acidly, sending a hex at the feet of someone who dared to even consider coming down the stairs. It missed. "There are probably more hiding up in the full moon rooms upstairs if we want to finish them off."

"Well, Alecto, you do know a lot about day-to-day life as a halfbreed, don't you," Wilkes said, uncomfortably moving away from her and giving the nearest Stunned werewolf a nasty kick in the ribs.

Yaxley chortled in addition, and Amycus said, "In the service of the Dark Lord, and don't you forget it." He hadn't liked it when Alecto had decided to stay with the pack after their first meeting with them and still had misgivings, but had grown used to it. "Now are we going upstairs to finish this off or not?"

Alecto hesitated and Wilkes seized upon that. "Oh, getting close to the little bastards now, are you? Don't worry, we'll be gentle," he cooed, shoving past her and stepping over fallen werewolves to be the first up the stairs.

Alecto started after him, sending a vicious curse his way and eventually resorting to a shout of "I'll fucking kill you if you touch me again, Wilkes!" She turned to Amycus. "If we kill them all, there's no net gain for Fenrir. Besides the bragging rights."

"Stop," Amycus said, and with a flick of his wand stuck Wilkes' feet to the stairs when he did not do so. "This is a matter for Fenrir and his pack, then?" he asked his sister.

"It's the look of the whole thing, a slaughter will gain respect because of fear, a takeover would gain respect out of politics, but a slaughter followed by a takeover'll get the most respect of all." Alecto released a tense breath. "Someone has to pay attention to all this, if we just come in here and kill everyone we could end up with a whole army of them attacking us."

"Not if we kill them all," Yaxley pointed out. "Won't be anyone coming then."

"These are complicated matters, Yaxley, and my sister knows the best of us all," Amycus snapped. He turned back to Alecto and gave her an expectant look. "And so what do you suggest?"

Alecto normally loved the spotlight, to be called upon like this, but now it just felt like she was being scrutinised by her peers. "We've had our fun, we torture those who are left here, whoever remains up there can be left to Fenrir's discretion. I didn't realise they'd fall so easily."

"Amycus, take this hex off or when I get down there I'll hex your bollocks off," Wilkes called down from his spot atop the stairs, as congenially as he could manage.

"With that sort of incentive, why shouldn't I leave you there?" he raised an eyebrow, but undid the hex. "You both heard her. Those who are already down are ours. The rest are to be left for Fenrir to deal with as he sees fit."

Wilkes strode down the stairs with the wounded swagger of one who took a clear hit to the ego. "Where is Greyback?" he asked, accompanying it with an eyeroll. "With his group of -- "

Alecto cut him off with an elbow to the ribs, not nearly as jokingly as it once might have been delivered. "He's... damn it, fuck it!" She sent a frustrated kick into the head of the fallen, now footless werewolf. "I think he's torturing the pack leader of this unfortunate lot. I'll talk to him. You three have fun."

Yaxley gave a dangerous smirk. "Come on, you both heard her. Let's have some fun," he purposefully echoed Amycus's earlier words. He was thinking the halfbreeds that laid outside would be best. "Ta, Alecto."

"Sister, remember, this is a matter for the wolves," Amycus warned her before he left. Despite that she clearly knew more than any of them, he did not trust Fenrir Greyback to practise discretion if she got in the middle of it.

She brushed off Yaxley with a distracted nod, glad to see Wilkes follow him outside, and let her focus set on her brother. "What do you mean?" she asked, her hand insecurely drifting to her hair.

"That at the end of the day, you are a witch. That is all," he said with a significant look, following Yaxley and Wilkes outside.

She released an unsteady breath before seeking out Fenrir, hoping for some screams from Conor to make the tracking even easier. Unfortunately, she found Conor in a nearly unconscious state, with Fenrir just talking and goddamn Wesley sitting by the side awaiting orders. "We've won," she reported. "Some of the pack is in the full moon rooms upstairs."

Fenrir stared at Conor, past frustration, but finally looked up at her. "That's all?" he asked of Alecto. "No advice, no opinions? No orders from the Dark Lord's hand?"

"This is your domain, Fenrir, I'm no werewolf, what do I know of your politics?" she asked rhetorically, her hands clasped modestly behind her back.

"Wesley, you go upstairs and deal with whoever's left. If they refuse to submit, make them." Fenrir sent a curious look up to Alecto as she stepped aside for Wesley. "You'll help me here?"

Her lips lifted in a strained smile. "I think you have this handled. More than handled. You've won this one. I'll be off enjoying the spoils."

"Go on, torture the halfbreeds," he said, expressionless, and shook Conor awake to continue their talk. "No more torture, this ends now. _You will submit._ "

"No." Conor's voice was rough, but clear. "I'd die first."

Alecto took that as her cue to leave the increasingly more uncomfortable situation and went outside to find her brother and the two men she'd once counted as friends, united in a cause that grew more alien with every minute passed in the company of the pack. _A witch first,_ she repeated to herself, and even smiled at the laughter of her fellow Death Eaters as she approached.


	12. Where There's Smoke

_The rise in attacked families with children gone missing can't be coincidental. It gives rise to the question: what is the MLE going to do about it?_ Trenton Williamson, "Month By Month; Attacks Rise," _The Daily Prophet,_ 22 September 1979.

_July 1979_  
Jane was too terrified to try and Apparate immediately from the house of her pack, certain to end up splinched if she did. Instead, once she was sure she was going to be able to run away fast enough without any interference, she shot out from her hiding place in the bushes at the side of the house and ran. She nearly stopped and turned back when she heard another scream ring out, but made herself pick up speed instead. You must run, she told herself. She darted into the trees – if she was being followed, she could lose them there.

She checked behind her for a second – just a second – and her sprint came to a dead halt when an arm reached out and snatched her from behind a tree. Her back slammed into the trunk, and she barely managed to keep hold of her wand, it jarred her so. “Let me go, I’ll kill you, I swear I will – “

“It’s me, it’s Patrick, Jane, it’s me!” Patrick released her, backing up only slightly so he remained under the cover of the tree. He raked his fingers through his light hair and dared to look out where war raged at the pack house that Geoffrey brought him to seven long years ago, where his pack was now falling. “Can’t you do something?” he demanded of her.

“There’s too many of them. There’s… four,” she faltered, breathing hard as she leaned back against the tree in momentary relief. She was just arrogant enough to think that she could have handled one, if she had a little luck and the element of surprise, but not more. “We have to run, Patrick, as fast and as far as we can.”

If Conor was dead, and he was assuredly dead if Fenrir had anything to say about it, Patrick was the heir, next in line to rule what was left of the pack. “Let’s go,” he said, and tried to slow his breathing. “Now.”

“This way,” she said, and took off in the direction she’d been heading. 

She heard Patrick running behind her the entire way. They sacrificed stealth for speed, crashing through the underbrush and weaving in and out of trees. Jane’s legs eventually cried out in protest, her muscles burning and rubbery from exertion. As she took in deep breaths of the warm, slightly humid air, she looked around at their unfamiliar surroundings. There was no sound except the chirp of crickets and the rumble of a car on a nearby Muggle road. “Do you see anyone?” she asked him, gasping for breath and unable to properly focus.

It took Patrick a moment to recover from the adrenaline crash, and he looked around, wide-eyed, and saw nothing. “No,” he said. “We’re… I don’t know where we are.”

Jane paced back and forth, still catching her breath. “Good.” That much was good. How far had they run? It was difficult to judge. It was dead silent, they must have gone far. They thought they’d been prepared, but she didn’t know that her uncle had counted on four Death Eaters coming. _Four._ She tried not to think about it, and instead concentrated on where she would have to go. She held a hand out to him once she was sure that she could take both of them. “Okay. Come on.”

He stared at her hand, confused. “What?”

“I have to Apparate,” she said, trying not to sound as distressed as she felt. “We’re going to Ben Skoll’s, and I have to have a hold on you to take us both.”

“Ben Skoll’s?” His voice rose. “I’m not going there!”

She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down to her level. “Yes,” she said. “You are. Conor told me to go there, to _warn_ him. He thinks Fenrir will go after Skoll next.”

Patrick scoffed. “What do we care, he’s a Father-killer!” 

Jane wasn’t going to stand here and argue with Patrick. She held on to his shirt even more tightly and concentrated to Disapparate. They disappeared with her inexpert crack and reappeared in the woods, downhill from where Ben Skoll’s pack lived.

“This is not a good idea,” Patrick muttered, but removed Jane’s hand from his shirt and started towards the pack’s house.

It didn’t really matter what Patrick thought was a good idea or not, Jane had her orders and she was going to follow them. They went up the hill and without a moment of hesitation, Jane knocked on the door with a fist until she hit air. “I need to see Ben Skoll,” tumbled out of her mouth without further explanation.

Skylar blinked down at the girl, and the taller boy behind her. The girl had a wand clutched in her hand, which was curious. She kept the door mostly shut and asked, “Who’s it that wants him?” she asked.

Patrick spoke before Jane could – it was his right. “Patrick and Jane of Conor’s pack,” he said. “We – we bring bad news, I’m afraid, news you’ll need to hear.”

“I’ve been here before,” Jane added quickly. “It really is urgent.”

Skylar remembered her. She was the witch who lived with Conor, and, while he didn’t look familiar, he acted like a typical male in the line of succession. “He’s around,” she said, stepping back to admit them. “Come in and wait.”

Jane and Patrick both stepped in, while Skylar left to fetch Ben. Even though she knew they hadn’t been followed – there was no possible way they could have been – she stared out the grimy windows near the door. Listening closely, she heard the sounds of mealtime and a lull in the conversation as Skylar spoke. 

Skylar stepped back in. “I’m supposed to take you upstairs. Ben will speak to you there.”

Patrick tried not to be insulted that they were being handled by a female, high-ranking or not. “Thank you,” he made himself say.

Skylar nodded, and they trekked up the narrow staircase to an upstairs room. Jane and Patrick entered where Skylar showed them to. “Wait here,” she said needlessly, and closed the door behind her when she went.

Jane paced momentarily, shaking off any nerves that remained. Nerves would show, even if she didn’t have the wolf that was ordinarily relied upon in these situations to gauge reactions. When she finally felt like she managed to calm herself down, she sat on the floor, in the deferential position, put her wand out on the floor in front of her, and pushed her sleeves up. She looked up at Patrick. “I know nobody necessarily likes dealing with Ben Skoll,” she started, “but please behave.”

“I’ll _behave,_ ” Patrick retorted. “I’m the presumptive heir, and I don’t appreciate you thinking so little of me.”

She was unmoved by his display. “Then act like it,” she said. “In this house, Ben’s the Father. Don’t get shirty.”

“Better to get shirty than commit _murder._ ”

Jane really hoped that he wasn’t going to say these things in front of Ben Skoll, and gave him a pointed look. She would Disapparate far, far away and leave him behind to let Skoll do whatever the hell he wanted with Patrick. She settled for another sharp look before she heard footsteps on the staircase.

Ben didn’t want to keep Conor’s people waiting for long, his witch and another boy. It had been years since he’d had nary a sign from them, not since Conor had visited years ago after he’d taken over the pack. Then, he’d brought his first, his heir, and the witch. He tried not to take it as an insult, as Skylar had said they came with bad news, but it was hard not to be curious. He opened the door to the upstairs room where Skylar had left them, and entered. 

Patrick stood the minute the door opened, the epitome of the respectful guest. “Thank you for your time, and we appreciate your hospitality. I’m Patrick of Conor’s pack, his heir.”

Ben examined him with a careful stare. This wasn’t the boy who had come years ago, although if the rumours that had been spreading were true, that boy no longer lived. The witch was the same, if older – seated on the floor with her wand in front of her. “I’m Ben Skoll, welcome,” he said courteously. “I presume Conor has sent you here on his business.”

“It’s – sort of,” Jane stumbled over her words. She was going to string together a sentence now because she had to, and if she didn’t, Patrick might. “I don’t know what kind of rumours have been spreading,” she started, “but the Greyback pack is finally putting plans into motion to build their Unified Pack.”

Ben felt his wolf regard her curiously, even though she had no wolf in her. “There have been rumours,” he said carefully. Not many, but enough that curiosity was piqued.

“Well. They – Fenrir started with us.” Jane didn’t want to lose her calm, dignified front, but panic was beginning to well up inside her, and she was wringing her hands as though she could squeeze the words she needed from them. “We were expecting it, _waiting_ for it, but – “ She cut herself off when she realized with some horror that she was on the verge of tears.

“But they brought four Death Eaters,” Patrick completed, clearing his throat after his voice came out strained. “Even now our pack is falling to them, to the slaughter.” 

The pieces were starting to come together. “Fenrir killed Conor’s heir to goad him into war he might have had to declare himself otherwise,” Ben said, mostly to himself, looking at each of them with his brain moving faster and faster with every second.

Patrick gave a curt nod. “Our pack is lost. Dead, or absorbed into the Greyback pack’s absurd ‘unified pack’. You would do best to make preparations before he does the same to yours.”

“Because I’m the unnamed who flouted pack law when I took over,” Ben said dryly.

“We didn’t say that,” Jane added hurriedly, before Patrick could say anything.

“You don’t have to.” He waved a hand to indicate that it didn’t matter. He made the choice to build his reputation on the tragedy that surrounded the circumstances, and it was a price the pack had to pay. An unnamed who would dare to murder a pack’s true heir was one that you had to watch out for, after all.

“You’re the fearsome Ben Skoll, father-killer, we remember,” Patrick said curtly. “We respect you and your pack, we need your help, and there are more important things to be discussed.”

Jane made a small noise of what might have been annoyance and covered her face with her hands. The corner of Ben’s mouth quirked upward at the absurdity, but said nothing. “You are right. I need to speak with my pack,” he said, moving towards the door. “You may stay here, you’ll be safe.”

“Thank you,” Jane answered, her face still in her hands. This was just about too much.

He nodded. “If either of you require anything, please ask. You are guests of my pack.”

Patrick nodded once again and turned away before he could bring himself to accept the aid of Ben Skoll.

“Yes, thank you,” Jane added hurriedly. Once Ben Skoll left the room, she let herself go limp. She laid with her forehead on the bare wooden floor, and wished the floor would swallow her. 

Now that there was no Ben Skoll to distract him, Patrick’s exhaustion and panic caught up to him, and he knelt and gave in, praying that Jane wouldn’t judge him. The silence was a reprieve from the events of the day, and they welcomed it.

~*~

_September 1979_  
Mondays were not Bartemius Crouch’s favourite days, especially not this particular one. It was a Monday of the rainy sort where all sorts of bad news ended up in your lap the moment you arrived at work after a long weekend, although in recent months, that went for any day of the week. Still, the Death Eaters seemed to relish their freedom on weekends just as anyone else – too much, sickeningly, he decided, flipping through the casefile and pictures the Aurors prepared.

As industriously as Magical Law Enforcement worked, the Death Eaters worked even harder, it seemed, every day of the week, striking in different places in different ways. Two families were murdered over the weekend, one in their Sunday clothes prepared for church before they were slaughtered one after the other, the other murdered in their beds, the blood spattering the walls. Another child from a noted pureblooded family had gone missing, a broken window and a trail of blood the only clues. 

Crouch looked up. “Emily!” he called, waving her in. 

She approached the door without hesitation, notebook swiftly in hand. “Yes, Mr Crouch.”   
It was important to ask without emphasis or concern, as offhand as he could. “When is the full moon this month?” 

Emily flipped back a few pages and raised her head again. “It was Friday, Mr Crouch.” 

Fenrir Greyback. One more month of this kidnapping nonsense, and he would address it. It was entirely possible that these children were not being snatched by a werewolf, instead by the Death Eaters, hostages perhaps. Not a pattern they had seen yet, but it wasn’t as though Greyback left a calling card of any sort. “Thank you, Emily.” 

She cleared her throat in her usual polite way, and folded her hands. “Mr Scrimgeour is still waiting for you, sir.” 

“Still? I told you to send him off.” 

“He wouldn’t leave, Mr Crouch. He chose to wait until you were less busy.” 

Crouch scoffed and closed the file. “Then he’ll be waiting forever.” 

“Would you like me to send him off again, sir?” Emily took a step back. 

He gave an impatient gesture. “Just send him in.” 

She left the door open, and Crouch observed Scrimgeour standing outside with the idle stance of a lion waiting to spring, only to look up after Emily’s murmured invitation and meet the gaze of his superior with something resembling amusement. Unamused himself, Crouch gestured him inside, having no time to waste. 

“Close the door,” he added curtly to Scrimgeour as he entered. “What is it you need, Auror Scrimgeour? You’re acting… curiously.” 

“I supposed you’d be busy dealing with the events of this weekend.” Scrimgeour looked very much like he wanted to smirk – triumphant, in a way. “I thought I would wait – “ 

Crouch sat back, not about to dignify the typical Auror superiority complex with close attention. “If it’s urgent, then I would like to hear it. If it isn’t, then you can schedule an appointment. In your many years here and general common sense, I had thought you might have noted the procedure.” 

Scrimgeour shook his head and looked uncharacteristically pensive. “It isn’t life and death,” he said after a moment of thought. “But it is urgent. It is something we need to consider as early as we can. Something that I think we need to implement.” 

“Ah.” What a world it was when Aurors brought him ideas to be implemented. Still, Scrimgeour was hardly the usual sort, if fallen from grace. “Yes. I have some time now, go on, explain yourself.” 

“The full moon was Friday.” He hesitated to go on, but the most powerful man in wizarding Britain was looking at him, and it was important, so he did. “Theodore Urquhart’s daughter went missing.” 

Crouch thought he would have no problem spending the rest of his life without ever hearing a mention of werewolves or the full moon ever again. “I understand that you … are personally invested in the issue of Fenrir Greyback,” he said, “but you must admit that it is a bit of a stretch to presume that the girl was kidnapped by the werewolf.” 

“If you’re suggesting that I’m biased because Greyback stole two of my nephews and killed the other, you may be right,” Scrimgeour said frostily, but determined to press his point. “That doesn’t change that Greyback is still out there, and that the werewolves are on the side of You-Know-Who. Something must be done.” 

“I assure you that we’re looking into many possible avenues into dealing with this problem.” Crouch opened the file again to glance at the Auror’s notes – the Longbottoms, of course, always a dependable pair. 

Scrimgeour said nothing for a long moment, until Crouch glanced up to prompt him. “I believe I have a solution, Mr Crouch, if you’ll listen.” 

There were no real solutions when it came to this war or any war, but he supposed he could humour the old dog. “I’m intrigued,” he said. “Go on.” 

“There are certain people within the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” Scrimgeour began, but was cut off by his superior’s scoff. 

“Newt Scamander…” Crouch tried not to roll his eyes. Newt Scamander was impossible to deal with, but that was hardly something to say to just anyone. “He has a different vision of this war. Not to mention, a different view of werewolves.” 

Scrimgeour was unmoved, undeterred. “There are people who think differently than Newt Scamander. Proactive people, who are aware of the danger that werewolves pose and want to address the problem.” 

Just like that, Crouch saw where this was going. “How _thoroughly_ have you researched this, Auror Scrimgeour?” 

“I was at the right party with the right people. She approached me, sir.” Scrimgeour drummed his fingers on his leg, determined to seem as unconcerned with this as possible. “Surely you know Dolores Umbridge.” 

Crouch gave a wry half-smile. “A good friend to my wife, I believe they’re second cousins; isn’t she an undersecretary of a sort in Magical Creatures? And of course she lobbied for that centaur bill, years back.” 

Scrimgeour made himself return it. “Sir, her political mind is second only to yours, and I have never met a more effective woman in my life, with so _many_ close friends.” 

“I understand.” How couldn’t he? An opportunity to deal with Magical Creatures without dealing with Newt Scamander was one he could not resist, especially if it came with a pureblooded political genius who knew the right people and was more than eager to work with him. “Thank you, Auror Scrimgeour, on the behalf of this Department and the people of wizarding Britain. You’ve done both a great service today.” 

“Thank you for the opportunity, sir.” Scrimgeour rose and went to the door, but paused. “What happens when Newt Scamander catches wind of this?” he asked, his hand on the doorknob. 

Crouch looked over his glasses at the Auror. “I suppose we’ll see then whose vision is clearer.” 

For just a moment, Scrimgeour wore a genuine look of amusement before he returned to his professionally reserved expression and said, “Best of luck, sir,” and left. 

Emily leaned into the doorway the instant he left. “Your nine o’clock is here, Mr Crouch.” 

“Send her in. And please contact Dolores Umbridge in Magical Creatures, schedule an appointment with her within the week. Thank you,” Crouch added to her briskly as the press secretary, Beatrice, entered past her. As the door shut behind Emily, he looked to her and leaned forward, his hands clasped together, prepared to face both a Monday and a press conference. “Onward, I suppose.” 

“Nowhere else to go,” Beatrice said, more optimistically. 

“True enough,” Crouch sighed, and reached out for the statement she held in her hand. The rain and the weekdays varied, but every day was as full of death and politics as any other. There was nowhere else to go but onward, and he could only hope that they would soon proceed with some speed after aid from a new ally.

~*~

_November 1979_  
Remus never felt safe anywhere, anymore. Out of the pack, even with his friends and the other Order members, it felt like there were always eyes on him, doubting looks, suspicious whispers. He was willing to bet that was more paranoia than anything else -- maybe. He was never quite sure, and that doubt that caused all of his stress.

In the pack, it wasn't any better. Eyes were still on him and the discomfort was even worse, because even after a year of his frequent disappearances -- had they been noticed? He didn't think so. It seemed like Fenrir was more preoccupied with consolidating wayfaring members of the Greyback pack. That had included himself at one time, but not now. Fenrir had the heir to his pack, his first named male, whatever that was worth to him. The fact that he might leave every once in a while to see wizard friends so long as he returned was either inconceivable to him, or ignored. Either way, not a word had been said.

It was two days after the full moon until Remus was finally lucid enough to heal himself, which he did in his upper room. New scars were nothing after an entire lifetime. He felt a pull at his wolf, and tried to calm the oncoming dread -- there was only one person in this world who could pull at him like that, and the dread it brought to Remus confused the wolf. _It's your Father,_ it reminded him. He knew it. God, but he knew it. He left the room and let the wolf take him to where Fenrir waited, and he knocked.

Fenrir casually let the wolf reach out to Remus, pleased that it wasn't Wesley with his reports and concerns, but his first following orders. Whatever Laurel and Wesley dared to imply to him, Remus obeyed like a good son when he was given reason to. "Come in," he called.

Remus did so, turning the doorknob and letting himself into the room. He tried to let the wolf be in the forefront, being that it felt more confident and sure. "You, um... called," he said for lack of a better term.

Fenrir accepted that with a smirk and let his wolf do as it wanted, giving his son a brief, affectionate nudge. "Right, right. Are you coming tomorrow? Alecto would appreciate another wand, but if you'd rather not get drawn into wizarding affairs, I understand that well enough."

Oh. That. Remus should have guessed. "I... no. I think not," he said, possibly the easiest answer he'd given anyone since arriving.

"If you change your mind, we're leaving after breakfast, once Alecto brings the Portkeys, or whatever you call those." Fenrir shrugged. "Tomorrow'll work out. There's more important things to consider." Without any effort whatsoever, he locked onto his tie to Remus and forced him into easy obedience. "I've orders for you, are you ready, Remus?"

It jarred him slightly -- not physically, too used to it to be physically affected by it any longer. But he definitely stood a little straighter and was prepared to listen a little closer. "Yes," he answered -- but did he really have a choice?

"Things are going to change, and for the good of the pack, I need your wits focused on keeping everyone in line. You're observant, you're smart, use it. Don't let Alecto or Wesley get in your way, use them if you want." Fenrir sighed, thoughtful, and released the tie. "Conor is an old friend of mine, but I don't trust him, or his first. Watch them."

Remus remembered Conor, easily -- not that he was a man who was difficult to forget. He decided he wouldn't blame Fenrir for not trusting them, it wasn't as though Conor had given him reason to. The first he wasn't quite as certain on. "The blonde?" he questioned.

Fenrir laughed to himself, not quite pleasantly. "The blonde," he said. "Briony. She likes to think she's an heir, mad, isn't it? Just shows you why we had to bring Conor back. He went completely over the edge."

It offended every sensibility that he had, but he also knew better than to say so. "I'll watch," he said instead, nodding.

"You should consider coming along tomorrow," Fenrir said, eyeing his son. "It would do you good, to see the pack as it's meant to be."

He looked back, considering. "You'll be taking everyone else with you," he said. "Someone should stay."

"You and Conor." He snorted. "Perfect. Make sure he doesn't try to take over, or run. He has too many allies like him. Women, father-killers, bastards."

Remus was pretty sure if Conor was going to overthrow while Fenrir was out wreaking havoc with the Death Eaters, armed with a wand or not, there was probably not much that Remus was going to do to stop him. "No. Of course not," he said.

"Then you're free to go. Just... don't be afraid to take what you want or need, Remus." Fenrir smirked. "My house is your house, especially when I'm not here."

Had Alecto not said much the same to him, of the Dark Lord's resources? "I... thank you," he said with what he hoped was the proper amount of deference as he backed towards the door.

Fenrir gestured for him to go, and shared a look of amusement with Laurel as he left. "Come in," he said, in much a different tone than he used with his heir, and smirked as she shut the door behind her.

~*~

Jeremy Curenton had never felt more like a Curenton than now, with a scroll of research notes up to an inch thick and a topic he knew better than anyone in all the British Isles. Of course, he had no O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s, but he was a fully-grown wizard, a werewolf with fine control, and the role of activist was starting to fit well. As each pack opened up to him, one after another, his pride was bolstered, his knowledge augmented. He was nearly prepared.

The best of all this was the evening he arrived at the Den and found Ben Skoll, his consistently helpful (if controversial) friend and pack leader, in the common area. "What the hell, Ben," he called to the older werewolf in disbelief, only then recognising Skylar and second, Diana, as well as many others of the Skoll pack members, laying about the area as well. "You're _here?_ "

Ben Skoll was not precisely pleased to say so, but indeed, he and his pack were in the Den. "We are. I suppose it'd be a fair bet to guess that your next question would be why, would it?" he added with a wry grin.

Jeremy dragged a chair in and sat on it backwards, fixing a terribly curious look on Ben. "You're in my pack's house now, my rules," he joked. "Don't suppose you're here to talk political theory? I hope you're not staying long, I'm not sure we could fit you lot here over the next full moon..."

"Far more serious than that. Good evening, Jeremy," Owen said in one breath on his way through to the kitchen, Skylar and Gemma (who waved enthusiastically at Jeremy) following close behind. 

"If I want to talk political theory, I wait for you to come to me," Ben joked, and ran a hand over his hair, once Owen had passed. "We'll be out of here by then. By _god_ I hope we'll be out of here. There's a lot of really weird shite going on out there right now, Curenton, and we can't be too careful. ... We'll figure something out if we're not. It's the least of our concerns."

Jeremy didn't even have to ask full details, because the more he'd researched, the more the trouble came clear. "News on Conor and the Greyback packs, I suppose?" he asked, trying to force his stomach to release the tension that naturally came when discussion of his Father arose. "Elaborate, you can trust me."

"The last we'd heard, nobody knew what was actually going on," he replied. "There've been some really... interesting developments. Conor's not dead, so far as we know, but that's not all good news. There isn't hardly anything left of Conor's pack, and the few that remain are now under Fenrir."

It didn't surprise Jeremy, but it still hit him hard. Conor's pack was well-known to be equal opportunity, fair, even a plausible threat to Fenrir's, and maybe for a few weeks he had actually hoped Fenrir would lose. It was inevitable. Fenrir always won. "Conor's working for him," he inferred. Ben nodded. "I might be missing something here, but I don't think you've answered my question yet -- why are you here?"

"The unified pack movement's been given new life, so to speak. Conor's new heir and the witch came to me, and we're going to see what's what -- go see Hati. I’m taking Keith with me because he's the only way that little so-and-so will be civil, named sons my arse… Anyway, until we can find out more, this is neutral ground for the rest of them, at the very least." With any luck, it would also be safe ground for his pack. "Which is why I hope it won't be long."

_Shit._ Unified pack was just a theory, but now it flourished, in a pack led by a fugitive madman who was hardly fit to represent the whole werewolf community. Jeremy said nothing as he miserably absorbed this news and the idea of impending war. "You're safe here for however long it is," he said simply, rising from his casual seat in the chair. "Except for a few memorable occasions, this is neutral ground, and Conor or Fenrir himself would have to have some real bollocks to come walking in here talking about _unified pack_."

"Fenrir doesn't need bollocks, he's got a witch who serves the Dark Lord and she’s got friends," Ben replied, his tone clearly indicating what he thought of that. "Although he’s got them in spades. At any rate, I'm at least glad to hear that. Good news, finally."

"Well, for as much as the Ministry cares, I think they might even take my father seriously if he reported an appearance of the fugitive Fenrir Greyback," Jeremy quipped, replacing the chair where he found it. "You have things to do, I won't distract you further. Once this all blows over, though, I have a thousand and one questions for you as usual."

"I don't have a doubt about that," he answered, and thought for a moment before adding, "I have to get going. Since your dad's busy shuffling things around accommodating the disruption we've just caused, just tell him Sky and Diana have instructions and if there are problems, they're extensions of me. I'll return as soon as possible. Pass that on for me?"

"You'll be back, talk to Sky and Diana if there's trouble, I'll tell him." Jeremy sent a vague salute and grin to Ben on his way out of the common room. The kitchen, Dad was in the kitchen, and even if he wasn't, the Den was small enough that it wouldn't be too difficult to find him. Oh, good, he was still in the kitchen. "Dad," he said at a convenient moment, "Ben's on his way out, says that if any problems come up, talk to Skylar and Diana, they have instructions."

"Thank you," he said, glancing up at Jeremy, and indicated to Skylar the grand tour was over. She, in turn, began to rein in Gemma, who'd begun to scavenge through the cupboards. Owen turned back to Jeremy. "This is easily the most people we've ever had here at one time."

"Ben's fifteen plus our fifteen makes for a full house," Jeremy conceded, shifting to look around for all or any action that could distract from that comment. Even if his father knew about his exploits to the packs, Jeremy wasn't going to acknowledge it. "He'll be out soon enough, but I know in this climate I'd want to stay in neutral territory as long as possible. Anything I can do to help?"

"I expect that if something comes up and you can help, you'll know it," he said dryly. "I think we're just going to be playing this one by ear. Just help them feel at home and do what you can." Jeremy had a degree of familiarity with Skoll's pack, he knew, but suspected it was more familiar than he thought.

"Understood. It's about time for dinner," Jeremy noted, backing up to eye the clock and see if there were enough people around to be conscripted into kitchen duty. "And we'll need extra hands for it, I'll root out volunteers. You should go keep Mum company for dinner, I can handle things here."

It was a very tempting idea. He nodded. Jeremy knew how things ran as well as he did and between him and Skoll's two, surely nothing they couldn't handle would come up. "All right. I'll come back later to make sure things are still going smoothly," he said.

"Light some candles, make it romantic," Jeremy added with a smirk. The prospect of long-deserved responsibility in the Den was yet another ego boost. "God knows you and Mum haven't been out on a date since before the founding of Hogwarts."

"It's because we got married and had kids, so thanks for that," he returned, mirroring the smirk. "Smart arse." He clapped him on the shoulder before moving past him and out of the kitchen. He made a detour into his office before he made it all the way out the door, however -- just a couple quick things that he wouldn't have to do later if he did them now.

Jeremy did his best to gather volunteers beyond the usual set, co-opting Rory and Gemma from Skoll’s pack just because he could, and observed the progress and chatter in the kitchen with amusement. He took his usual spot in the window seat, greeted the sunset with a smile, and was only startled from his relaxation with a shout from the other side of the house. "SOMEONE'S COMING!"

Oh, no way, not right when he'd had everything in order here. Jeremy ordered the kitchen volunteers to keep on as he walked through, his brisk step stopping dead as he saw the cause of the shout. Sure as hell, someone was coming, there were a lot of someones coming, and it didn't take much imagination to jump to the most logical conclusion. "Upstairs, the full moon rooms," he first ordered and then added, "if you like" before darting off to check to see if his father was still in his office -- and of course he still was. "Dad. Dad, there's trouble. I think."

It would just figure. A full house with all ages and there was real fucking trouble coming. Jeremy wouldn't have bothered otherwise. "What sort of trouble?" he asked, coming out.

He hated this, just standing there again like a useless kid on a porch while a werewolf murdered his sister. "There's a group of people approaching. Twenty or so, from the east. Two minutes away, at most."

"Do we know who they are?" The numbers were admittedly worrisome, and it was highly unlikely that they were coming in a group that large for something peaceful. At least, he supposed, it wouldn't be something they'd find uninteresting.

"I don't, and I doubt anyone else does -- wait, wait, we’re sorting it out," Jeremy shouted at the regulars of the Den, who were now ascending the stairs without hesitation; most of the Skoll pack lingered back. "It might just be another -- who says it's even a threat, do you know who it is?"

"Who else comes with a lot of wizards?" Cort, one of Skoll's werewolves demanded of him. "So much for neutral bloody territory!"

"How do you know they're wizards?" Owen asked in return, moving past a number of them to one of the window in the front room. In the dying light, he could see that many of them did have wands at the ready. They were that close.

They were, in a couple words, pretty screwed.

"Upstairs," Jeremy barked at the lot of them, entirely on instinct, perhaps to banish the knot in his throat. "They'll never bloody get in those rooms." He reached for his own wand and went for the door.

"As he says," Owen said, with a nod to Skylar at a glance from her. "The doors are very secure. It will be tight, but everyone can fit in those rooms."

"Right, you all heard him," she echoed, and it seemed as though everyone snapped into action at once towards the stairs. Owen steeled his nerves and followed Jeremy, his wand in his hand.

Alecto tossed her head to get her hair out of her face, damning the wind with a series of unladylike curses and lifting her lit wand to get a better look at Curenton's cute little Den. "Can't we just get it from here?" She mocked shooting a spell, trying to draw a smile from Fenrir who had been far too quiet on their way there. "Come on, I can take them out screaming."

Fenrir scratched his chin as he stared at the Den, the haven of tame werewolves. Yes, he'd enjoy his time, now that he had the strength of four wizards and the best fighters in Fenrir's pack to do as he pleased with the Curentons... but not that. "Be patient, Alecto, we're nearly there," he said, patronising her.

On Alecto’s other side, Amycus smirked slightly. Even after all her time among the wolves, she was still the one who would talk to fill the silence. “Yes. Patience, sister,” he said, enough levity in his tone to indicate he was teasing.

Alecto nudged her brother in the ribs, continuing to speak to Fenrir in her sweetest sing-song. "Fenrir, we get to kill some of them, don't we? A majority. I mean, they're not going to join you, are they? They're the weaklings and bastards." At a glare from Fenrir, she balked. "What, did I say something wrong?"

"We're here," Fenrir said without answering her. The porch was mere feet away. "Wesley, Laurel, with me, Alecto, choose your best two, we -- " He stopped, startled, as a spot of grass at his feet burst into flame.

"Not a bloody step further!" Jeremy shouted from his spot by the door, wand brandished. "You want to go to Azkaban, Fenrir, you want the Ministry to have you? Then what for your unified pack?"

"Jeremy," Owen warned under his breath before addressing Fenrir. "We don't have anything for you, Fenrir. The chances are that they won't bother with Azkaban, you know that, not after all that you've been responsible for."

Fenrir tilted his head to look past them, to see if he could see any werewolves from where they stood, but they were likely hidden away upstairs, the same tactic that Conor's pack had tried. How predictable. "You have more than you think, Owen. Those werewolves of yours, they'll prefer life in my pack to your charity, believe me."

"You didn't hear me, did you? They know where you are now!" Jeremy's instincts, the wolf's instincts, told him to run, but he couldn't, he couldn't freeze again in front of Fenrir. "And they'll give you the Dementor's Kiss, you'll be _dead._ "

"Oh, there’s the son, _my_ son. Send your son to his real home, Owen, with his wolf and with me," Fenrir said with a grin, which turned to a sneer as he leaned over to Alecto. "Torch the house."

"Fire," Alecto shouted, though whether it was in glee or as an order, there was no telling. Either way, she was the first to send flames shooting at the side of the house.

Normally, Owen was calm in emergencies and tense situations. The tenser, the calmer, it was what made him good at what he did. But at those words, he momentarily froze. That was thirty people, and his work. He made a fast move to disarm the witch, but instead found himself without a wand with one " _Expelliarmus!_ " from the man at her side.

Jeremy ducked behind the door and thanked God for the time the kitchen caught on fire. " _Centonis!_ " he shouted, casting the extinguishing curse as best he could from that angle – but he couldn’t get it all. "Dad -- shite, what do we do?" The werewolves upstairs... but if they let them loose, the witch and the wizards would most likely start picking them off. 

Owen jumped out of the way just in time to avoid being hexed into splinters along with the door. He threw the nearest chair out of the doorway to buy them a few more seconds. "If we leave them up in the rooms, they're dead anyway. Running, there's a chance." With the ten or so wizards and witches, it wouldn't take long for the house to go up like Greek fire.

The answer was obvious. Unfortunate, but obvious. The worst that could happen was it wouldn't work, and he'd even make that work to his advantage. "No, wait. Wait. You get them out." Jeremy shoved the chair aside and ran outside, ducking with his sleeve over his face to keep from inhaling too much smoke.

There was no time to act otherwise. He turned and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, and reflexively twisted the doorknob on the first door that he could reach. Locked, of course, and without a wand he couldn't undo it. "Please, it's me, you have to open the door," he yelled, banging on it with his fist.

The door opened slightly, stopping with only a few inches of clearance. Once of the Den's regulars stared back at him. "What's going on down there," he demanded flatly.

"Please, everyone needs to leave, and quickly," he replied.

"Leave? Why?" Skylar asked from the second door, a couple of heads peeking around the corner at Owen, with glances as inquisitive as hers.

God, there were children. The children would never run fast or far enough. He instead moved down the hall, urgently knocking on doors that had not yet opened. "They've set the house on fire, and you can't stay here. You'll die."

"We may die anyway," a voice from one of the rooms called, and there was a sudden rise in voices of general confusion. Questions. Fear.

"LISTEN TO ME," Owen shouted above everyone. "They have come here to kill and hurt you, this is your life, why don't you fight to protect it?" he demanded. "Those who are ready to fight and yes, maybe die, go, and run. But if you stay here you will surely die."

There was tense silence for only half a second more, and Skylar stepped out of the second room. "Show us which door to leave by and where to go. Ben Skoll's pack will go."

Good enough for him. "Follow me," he said, moving back to the staircase, with the pack close on his heels.

Jeremy ducked a series of hexes as he stumbled down the stairs, badly deflected a last into a second-story window of the Den, and put his hands and wand up. "STOP BLOODY -- stop hexing me! I'm here to make a deal!"

"A deal?" Alecto laughed, throwing another hex at him to send him scrambling to avoid. "What do you have to offer, boy?"

"I'm _his_ , aren't I?" Jeremy shouted over the yelling of curses. The life's work of his father was burning down mere feet away but there was a possibility he could bring this to a halt. He got to his feet, dusted himself off, and shoved his wand in his belt. "I'm of Fenrir's pack, even if I'm a bastard unnamed." He tried not to look at the door, to see if anyone was about to escape, especially because he'd just caught Fenrir's attention. He was right. A Father would do anything to regain a son.

Owen's heart leapt to his throat to see his son so close to them, to be speaking as he was. He forced his paternal instinct down, there were thirty or so people behind him who needed to make a run for it, and today wasn't the day for miracles to occur. He turned to Skylar behind him and said, "Follow the porch around the side, this way," he pointed to indicate, "and climb over the rail. And then run as fast as you can. Some of you, go the opposite way, that will split their focus." _God,_ he hoped this worked, even a little.

Jeremy forced down his fear at approaching Fenrir, his Father, the man who killed his sister and ruined his life. "It's a weak pack leader who attacks other packs without even consolidating his own," he pointed out, ludicrous as his reasonable tone sounded among the chaos of a battle.

Fenrir’s ranks burst past the two of them as Skoll’s pack ran out of the house. Alecto shrilled out her orders, few of which were even followed, but the shower of Dark Arts continued; Wesley took a more proactive approach, leading an attack on the fleeing werewolves head-on. Jeremy tried to focus past the crackling of the fire and the screaming of the victims as Fenrir approached him. God, this was his worst nightmare. "Fenrir. I -- "

"You didn't owl the Ministry." Fenrir looked out at the chaos after the boy shook his head. "You couldn't have, we would have seen an owl go out. So you and the crowd of bastards are here alone, defenceless. And you think I'll spare the lot of them and let them free just to get a _bastard?_ "

"I'm the bastard who nearly got you the Dementor's Kiss and will again if you give me the chance." The words came easily; he suddenly understood how his father could be so calm in situations like this. "Might be me, but I think one bastard that dangerous might be worth controlling."

With hell breaking loose all around him, Owen was scarily calm. The pack was out, running and fighting for their lives if they could. There wasn't anything more he could do for them, he accepted. Jeremy was still with _him,_ and there was something in their postures that left him more than uneasy. He started towards them, but no sooner had his feet hit the grass than he was tackled to the ground. His first instinct was to fight back, of course, but he realized that whoever was pinning him to the ground was not being any more aggressive than that. He forced himself to stop and looked. "You?"

Briony had picked up the deposited wand unsure of what she thought she was going to do with it, but she knew immediately when she saw the wizard advancing towards his son and Fenrir. He was going to need it. "The bastard who took it dropped it in the grass," she said, clumsily handing the wand to him, unnoticed. "Use it well."

His hand wrapped around it, familiar with the feel of every grain of wood. With a last look that may have been a silent apology, she pushed herself off of him to rejoin the fray. He pushed himself up as well, rolling his shoulder that now protested the contact it had made with the ground. He was getting a bit too old for that. He continued his way, blocking a stray hex.

"You think _you're_ dangerous?" Fenrir allowed himself a smug grin at feel of the blaze of the Curentons' Den burning against his face, at the sound of screaming werewolves who dared to defy destiny. "You're a bastard, an unschooled wizard, and your father is an idiot."

"My father is no idiot," Jeremy shouted at Fenrir without even a second of thought. "My father only wanted to help you and look at what you've done, you've ruined _everything!_ You need to th -- "

Fenrir grabbed the boy by the neck and choked him for a moment, enjoying the fear in his eyes as Jeremy tore at his captor's hair and clothing for some sort of release, before shoving him to the ground. "Very dangerous," he scoffed.

"Jeremy!" Owen cried out as he saw him hit the ground, only feet away. He wanted to pick him up, as any father would a son, but it would have left them at a severe disadvantage. He pointed his wand instead, and shot off the first hex he could think of.

Fenrir tried to evade the hex but was grazed, his cheek bloody and raw from its path. The fury of the wolf and the man came immediately. "A fine bloody pair of fools you are, father and son," he snarled, and stalked to face Owen personally. "Go on, hex me again, wizard, I dare you, it won't be the first!"

"You destroy without a thought or a care, you _always_ have! You deserve whatever justice comes down upon you!" he shouted. A smarter man would have bound him, stunned him, and figured something else out, but Owen gave in to his pent up anger and desire to see Fenrir bleed. He did as the other man dared, and hexed him again.

Fenrir was done with talk, and allowed the hex to hit him, more set on grabbing Owen by the throat and doing what he'd always wanted to do to the activist -- rip it out.

At once, Owen was wishing that he'd bound Fenrir, and reflected on this with a certain amount of absurdity as he twisted in a purely instinctive attempt at getting away. Again his wand lay abandoned in the grass to free both his hands to tear at the ones around his throat.

Jeremy had no choice, not at this point, no matter if it'd muck up his later plans; saving his father's life was definitely on the top of his list of priorities. He sent a very nasty electrifying hex at Fenrir's back, scrambling to grab his dad's wand before either of them landed on it.

Owen's lungs flooded with air the instant he was released -- dropped, maybe, everything was a little fuzzy around the edges and it hardly seemed to matter anyway because he could _breathe._ He laid still on the ground, unable to expend any more energy than that. He could hear screaming, the Den was fully in flames, and he knew that he should do something. "Jer -- Jeremy," he croaked out, still short of breath.

Jeremy crawled over to his father, coughing at the smoke now permeating the area, and held out his wand. "Dad," he whispered urgently. "Dad, you need to -- "

There was a loud crackling sound from the flaming roof of the Den, and a split second of uncertain silence before the roof collapsed in on its left side, the weight tearing through the second floor. A shaken Alecto shouted "OUT, let's get out of here! To me, you fucking animals, to me!"

Owen knew his son, and could see the gears spinning in his head at an alarming rate. He did not have a good feeling about this. "What?" he asked, demanding Jeremy's attention with a firm hand on his chin.

Something deep inside him reacted to that, a son's reaction to a father's command, and even his wolf reacted with the strongest yearning for pack since he'd first touched Briony. "I... I have to go. With him. I have to go," he blurted out. "It's what I have to do, Dad, it's what I've been doing this whole time, I'm ready..."

"FENRIR," Alecto shouted, but the stupid bloody werewolf wasn't listening. Was he _unconscious?_ "Fenrir, get your arse up, we have to get out of here before MLE gets here!"

Owen understood. He wasn't sure why, his instinct said to stop him, protect him, but Jeremy was right. "Use your head," he managed around the distress rising from his gut. "I -- I can't make this okay for your mother if you turn up dead." It was going to be hard enough as it was.

"I always use my head," Jeremy said with a quick, reckless grin. "Trust me. I know what I’m doing." He waved his wand at Fenrir, cast an " _Rennervate,_ " and began to drag him with a spell towards where Fenrir's pack and wizards had gathered, with captives on hand.

Alecto couldn't help but be a bit surprised that their one of their most troublesome quarry was helping Fenrir to his escape, but she wasn't about to complain. "Get his hand on here," she snapped at him, pleased when he obliged. "NOW!" All three Portkeys immediately activated at the touch of each hand of Fenrir's pack, and they left the Den in flames, bodies in the grass.

With the departure of Fenrir's pack, the noise died down and things went eerily silent. Whatever was left of the Den was crackling with a devious ferocity, and Owen exhaled, heart heavy and feeling defeated as ever. He sat up slowly, taking in the full image of the house burning for the first time, and closed his eyes when he couldn't stand to look at it any longer. He forced himself to stand and make his way home as fast as he could. There was too much to do to dwell on the loss and destruction.


	13. Ashes

_There's no way that we could have been ready, you understand. Even if you think you've prepared for every situation there are certain things that you're not ready to hear and it kills you inside all the same. The day my brother went missing was such a day. The day they found his body was an even worse one._ Stewart Cauldwell, _A Shadow Cast By Green Light: A Wartime Memoir,_ 1984.

_November 1979_  
When her husband had come home and told her that her son had run off with Fenrir Greyback, Brighid Curenton cursed, cried, and slept, and the next day was not much better. Their house was made for a family of four, and even if Jeremy was of age and soon to leave, that didn’t mean the time for teenage arguments, warm dinners, and joking arguments between fathers, mothers, and sons was finished. Now it was just her and Owen, like it had been long before, before they'd been blessed with such wonderful children.

She did her best to not start crying over a badly prepared pot of stew, her third in that morning.

Owen, on the other hand, hadn't slept at all, and it showed. MLE was in their house until after midnight and expected to come back some time later that day. He was digging up papers in his office, a deed and insurance for the Den. Dealing with business was the best way he could think of to keep his mind off his son with that destructive madman and the physical distress, and so far, it was working.

He sat at the kitchen table with the insurance papers he'd been able to find (not out of date, luckily, although he'd found those too), sitting in silence with Brighid at the stove. Neither of them expected the knock on the back door, but he got up to answer, and his stomach turned with who he saw on the other side.

Julia was on her break from work -- _Quidditch Weekly_ photographer's assistants didn't make much and got even less respect, but it was work -- but had a packet of photographs that she had taken at Jeremy's request (something about a pamphlet, but he'd gotten very excited about it) and wanted to deliver them personally. "Hi," she said, and went on without waiting for Owen to answer. "I'm just on break, but I had these to give to Jeremy quick. Is he here?"

She didn't know, Owen realised, and they were going to have to deliver the news. As if telling Brighid hadn't been hard enough. "Maybe you should come inside," he said slowly, stepping back so she could enter.

She sensed the unsettled feeling, although couldn't pin the cause of it. But something was not well in the house. "Okay," she agreed, coming in hesitantly, letting Owen close the door behind her.

"Who is it?" Brighid asked without turning around. She gave the stew a stir, pointlessly.

"It's me, Julia," she said, now very uncomfortable indeed. "Hello."

"...Hello," she returned after composing herself once more. "Jeremy's not here. You'll... you'll have to come back." 

It would not have been a problem, except that it still felt strange. And it would have been such a simple, quick exchange, but there was nothing about how Brighid had said it that was easy. Julia turned to look at Owen for clarification.

"He's not here, Julia," he finally said, taking his seat again. If he had to repeat this, then he was going to be sitting. "Last night, Fenrir Greyback brought his pack as well as wizards, and they attacked the Den, burned it down. Jeremy left with them."

"But." She blinked, her brain froze for a second, and for a minute she felt like she would like to collapse into one of the chairs, but she was able to keep her feet underneath her, even if her knees did feel like jelly. "I don't – why?"

"You know Jeremy. He has reasons. Plans. Always thinking," Owen said. 

"But... what does this mean?" Julia fought to keep her voice steady but was losing that battle. It was perfectly clear that there was no telling what this did mean, but it couldn't be good. Nothing involving Fenrir Greyback ever ended happily.

The kitchen was silent as a grave. "It means Jeremy isn't here," Owen replied quietly.

"He'll be back." Brighid stirred idly at the pot. "He's survived everything else, hasn't he?"

Julia was not predisposed to optimism, and so simply found it easier to not answer that. "He's gone and come back before," she echoed, although it didn't stop the bottom of her stomach from dropping every time she thought of Jeremy in Fenrir Greyback's pack.

"I knew it -- " Owen started, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. "Oh _god._ "

"He had," she repeated. "He had -- he was working on... Nobody knew so much about what was going on, not even you, all due respect," she told Owen. "He was talking to _everyone._ "

"To who?" Brighid turned around and abandoned the venture of more pointless stew for good. "To _Greyback?_ "

"No! Not to... him," Julia finished. "But he said... he would go, and..." She glanced at Owen, and back to Brighid. "I'm sorry, I don't know names."

"Skoll?" he provided without looking up from the table.

"Rings a bell," she admitted.

"Ben Skoll's pack is decimated," he said. He'd been meant to keep them safe, and the haven had turned to hell in a matter of minutes.

"There might've been a couple others," she added after a moment. This didn't seem to help, in fact seemed to upset Brighid even more, and so she forced herself to shut up.

Brighid drew herself up with the slightest dignity. "Don't mind me. You two should talk." She left them to each other. 

The kitchen was even quieter now, with only two people saying nothing instead of three. Julia realized she was holding her breath, although for what, she couldn't say. "I'm sorry," Owen finally said. "She's -- "

"Don't apologise to me," she interrupted him. She didn't have anything more to say, couldn't force herself to think of anything more to say. She dropped the packet of photographs on the table. "Here, if you want them."

He looked at the packet for a second, and shook his head. "They’re yours, keep them for him until..." Until when?

"I have the negatives," she said, edging towards the door. She needed to leave, because if she didn't there was likely to be a scene and god, she was ridiculous. A ridiculous girl, why could he make her this way? "Just... take them, please. I have to go back to work."

She seemed liable to run out the door without them at any rate. "Julia," he said, standing, although he wasn't sure what he was going to say to her if he managed to stop her.

Julia didn't stop, at any rate. "Goodbye. I'm sorry." She didn't know why she apologised, but it felt like the right thing to say. Not that it mattered. She flung the door open and walked as far as she needed to in order to Disapparate.

Owen was left staring at an empty backyard, and sighed. He knew that just beyond it was the razed land where the Den had stood not twenty-four hours ago. He turned away and left the kitchen, slamming the door to the outside shut with a flick of his wand and leaving the photographs abandoned on the table. He found Brighid in their bedroom, comfortable and tidy. "B," he spoke gently, an endearment usually reserved for written communication of varying degrees of intimacy.

"Owen," she said, when she felt she had a neutral tone. "Is she gone?"

"She's gone. Disapparated," he answered, and entered, seating himself on the edge of the bed, near where she laid.

Brighid remained silent, but sat up as she looked at him, and moved to sit beside him. Though it didn’t feel right to reach out for comfort when things were so wrong, she touched his face gently, pushing everything else aside. "Are you proud of him?" she asked.

It shouldn't have been like this. Neither of them should be sitting there, alone in a very empty house with equally empty hearts. Jeremy should have had exams and they both should be getting ready to beat boys off of Erin with a stick and any other number of things that would never be happening. Yet here they were. He set his jaw and gave Brighid the only answer he could think to give. "I have never not been."

She softened at that and rested against him. "But for whatever reason... it wasn't because of anything we did." It was less a statement than a question. "We... I, I didn't drive him away, to the werewolves, did I? He's been spending so much time at the Den -- " she stopped there, her throat catching.

_Wolves seek out other wolves, it is natural as breathing._ That particular sentence from his book stuck in his head, but she needed a father's opinion, a husband's opinion, not an author's. "We did nothing to drive him away," he said, cradling her head with one hand and letting her grasp his other. "You are nothing short of a spectacular mother."

She squeezed his hand hard, just accepting her husband's embrace until the grief she'd been stemming for so long overwhelmed her. "Both my children," she sobbed, with so few tears left to be shed that she ended up just quivering. "He took both my _children._ "

He smoothed down her hair and closed his eyes. Maybe he was a stubborn bastard for it, but giving in to his own grief seemed more and more like defeat. It was easier to comfort Brighid than it was to face it himself, but now it threatened to overpower him as well. "We've had two beautiful children," he said calmly as he could, which was to say not very. 

"He's your son more than he's mine," she countered. "Always writing, always muttering things under his breath, barely here, working into the night... on what I never knew. He talked about something big, but..." 

"I suppose that's all true," he sighed. His father's son. The phrase did not come to mind without black humour, but Brighid was right. Jeremy was every inch him. He laid his forehead on hers. "He's a man, Brighid. He'll take care of himself."

"You lot always do." A smile tugged its way onto her face. "That poor Frobisher girl, falling for an activist. I ought to have warned her."

"Maybe you should have," he said, running a thumb over the back of her hand. "She knows Jeremy, I'm sure if they talked about it at some point…" If she was who he thought she was, then she probably should have known better anyway. He skipped to the next, happier thing that came to mind. "Remember what I told you right before I asked you to marry me?"

"Remind me," she requested, a smile creeping into her tone.

"All that being a hopeless activist means is that I'll never be out of work," he did so, remembering the moment quite clearly, "because we're always the ones who have hope."

"There's always that," Brighid had to concede, catching him in a brief kiss. "Even... even without the Den, there's hope. We can do it."

He sighed again. "Without the Den." His son was in the depths of Fenrir's pack somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and he was thinking about work. Still, there was no use in pretending he hadn't been. He tried to formulate some sort of words to put his fleeting thoughts in the air, but they were too vaporous yet.

She squeezed his hand again, comforting rather than seeking comfort now, and tried to seek out that bit of hope. "We'll have to talk to the insurance people," she said. "It should be a nice amount of Galleons."

He nodded, keeping her hands in his. "It depends how all of that pans out," he conceded. He didn't want to sit and wait, he was more proactive than that.

"Well, we might be madpeople," she said, trying a joke, "but we didn't set that fire. They can't blame us for that."

"Indeed, no," he chortled. They would never need money _that_ badly. "They don't want to even hear the name Fenrir Greyback. Magical Law Enforcement," he clarified. "Of course, it would look terrible for them, it's easier to just leave the truth out of it."

And now she was actually smiling. There was trouble and they were getting no help. It was a comfortingly familiar situation. "Who needs the Ministry?" she asked him with a wry smile. "We never have. Let's just do it."

Seeing her smile made him smile, even if it was just a little bit. He kissed her quickly and then laid down on the bed, groaning slightly as he did so. "Not as young as we used to be," he sighed, bidding his muscles to relax. He paused for a minute before he continued. "This may not be the ideal location anymore."

She furrowed her brow and lay on her stomach beside him, watching his thought process with some amusement. "What do you mean? You want to _move?_ " They'd been living there for nearly twenty years, they couldn't _move._

"I don't know. At the very least, if we stay here and rebuild it, he's just going to come back. If you build where high tide washes away everything, you don't rebuild in the exact same spot. And the landscape's changed, now. So to speak." He glanced over at Brighid. "I'm sorry. It's still a mess up here," he tapped his forehead.

"I can tell, you're mixing metaphors, you never do that." She nudged him, playful yet. "So you want to move into the city, is that it? I'm not sure you could convince werewolves to come into the city."

"I'm not sure I could, either." He was good, but he wasn't Moses. "It depends on whether they'd rather find a safe place in a city or be absorbed into the unified pack, possibly killed. ... I don't know."

"Well, I like the country, but I suppose I'll follow you to the city if I must. At the very least it's harder to burn down a building and have MLES ignore it, in Swansea."

"Above and beyond the call of duty," he said with adoration and some humour. He didn't like it overly much either, he'd never actually lived in a city before in his entire life but for the interim between leaving school and moving in with Brighid. Even if she said one thing, she could be thinking something else. "Are you sure? If you'd rather... stay in this house, something can be worked out, I'm sure. Slate's clean."

She managed a short laugh and lowered her cheek to the pillow. "I follow you, Owen. I always have. Do what you have to do, and I'll be happy."

The toll of having not slept was catching up with him, and he stifled a yawn long enough to give her another kiss, lingering near. "You are too wonderful for even my words, _cuisle mo chroí,_ " he told her.

Grief was too exhausting, and her clever words were running low. "I love you," was all she bothered answering, allowing her eyes to close only then.

"And I love you," he replied immediately, and turned onto his side to sling one arm across her back. He closed his eyes with his mind still racing, but soon enough he was lost in a heavy, exhausted sleep.

~*~

Alecto Carrow, to no one's surprise, had trouble sitting still in any circumstance. Fenrir loved the sound of his own voice and his rhetoric, especially right after a victory, and, though Alecto thought her standing beside the destined leader of all packs as he spoke to the pack would make a beautiful picture, after three torturously long minutes she gave up on it. She slipped away and through the crowd without a sound, expressionless. She had to appraise these new animals, after all.

She stopped to listen as Fenrir shouted, "You are my pack, and I am your Father, and that’s all you need to know. The wolf isn’t to be tamed or ignored, it’s meant to be led to the fight, to live at war, with whoever and whatever stands in its way. The natural state of pack, of all werewolves, is to band together. This is what we’re meant to be and meant to do." He found Alecto's blank face in the crowd and spoke decisively to her. "And we _are_ better. Don’t envy or emulate the wizards. Their wands won't save them forever."

Alecto felt the colour leave her face and turned abruptly, hand drifting to her wand by nature. When she raised her eyes from the floor, the first thing she saw made her halt again.

It took two quick strides to approach Curenton, who sat comfortably on the floor, eyes on Fenrir, mind clearly working fast, his lips moving faintly. "Does he inspire you?" she asked, voice pitched low and dangerous.

Jeremy's eyes flicked to her wand for an instant before meeting her gaze. "This is good stuff, someone ought to be taking this to memory," he said, with his best poker face.

"Could I tear you away? You and I have a bit of... business." She let the possible meanings hang in the air, and raised her eyebrows.

"Alex, or whatever your name is," he said, his tone more deferential than his words, "you needn't make it sound like a choice." He scribbled a last note and shoved the parchment and other writing tools into his pocket. 

Alecto had to admit, the kid had nerve. Another Gryffindor, perhaps? "Follow me," she said with a sweet smile, and vanished into the crowd. Though she didn't turn, she could hear his footsteps directly behind her, and Fenrir's voice faded as they entered the corridor of the pack house. 

"If you're going to kill me, this is terribly anticlimactic," Jeremy said, now flippant. "I was hoping to die in martyr's glory on the battlefield. You know what I mean? It sounds like something Death Eaters would enjoy."

If she strained her ears, she could hear that Fenrir was still talking. Typical. Rhetoric mattered, but action mattered more. That much the Dark Lord had impressed into his followers. "How are you so certain I'm a Death Eater?" Alecto opened the nearest door with a shrug. 

He stood in the doorway, unwilling to be locked into a room with her. "Call it an educated guess.” 

Smoothly she brandished her wand and spoke with no amusement at all. "Enter the room, close the door, lean against it. I'm going to need you to sit very still, Curenton." 

He obeyed, moving deliberately slow to stall. He turned to look at her once the door was closed, and decided instantly at her look to lean against the battered door. "How much do you know about me?"

"Is there much to know?" She took two steps and placed the tip of her wand on his chest, drawing it down and measuring his reaction before she began the nonverbal magic to remove the tracking charm. 

He recognised the wand movements but wisely looked away so she wouldn't catch it. "I'm completely useless," he declared. "To Fenrir, to your cause, to everyone. I have a barely O.W.L.-level wizarding education and I'll never belong to this pack. In name, maybe, in essence, no. I'm nameless. Unconnected."

Alecto watched his face for a moment as she worked, but he revealed nothing, so she responded. "But you chose this life over a comfortable life with parents who loved you despite your condition."

"And you chose this life over a comfortable one in the wizarding world, so my motivations can't be that questionable to you, can they?" He found a certain pleasure in a hesitation of her next wand movement. 

The kid was smart, too. "Let me guess. Ravenclaw," she said. "Prefect. A lot of girlfriends but none since you were expelled. Replaced all that with study for the N.E.W.T.s you'll never take and obsessive study of your condition. How close am I?" 

Jeremy smiled at that, though the mere mention of Hogwarts threatened to tear a hole through his necessary stoicism. "Hufflepuff prefect, a few girlfriends. Why do you keep calling it a condition? Your sort thinks we're subhuman." 

Hufflepuff. She hadn't been expecting that. "You are. Werewolfiness just doesn't slide off the tongue, you know. Sit still." 

He deduced silently, aching to ask but well aware that showing that he even had a hand of cards at this point would lead to his quick failure. _Slytherin. A few years older. In love with this cause. Fucking mad but smart._ "Some call it lycanthropy." 

"Should have known the activist's son would know all about it," she said idly, completing the countercharm with a flick of her wand. She took a good look at him and lowered her wand. "You're Fenrir's property now. No one knows where you are, no one will care to seek you out, Jeremy. You're the property of this unified pack and you'll keep your smart mouth shut if you would like to live. Fenrir has every right to rid himself of you given a reason, now that you're his." 

"Fenrir, or you?" The question left his mouth before he could think twice, and he simply tensed, his hand clenching for some help but finding only the solid wood of the door. 

It took one step for her to be right in his face, to smell the soap and sweat and shaving cream that marked a man of civilisation. She lifted his chin with the tip of her wand, examining his fear. "You would be lucky to die by my hands," she said in a sudden sing-song. "You would be lucky, because I inevitably end the pain. Wesley will just rip you to pieces and leave you bleeding on the ground to die as you cry for your mummy. I've seen it at least twenty times." 

It would be a lie to say that didn't affect him, that a Death Eater inches away from him with her wand pressed to his Adam's apple talking about how bad it could get here, but he was a man on a mission. There was nothing to stop him. He let the fear overwhelm him and his knees nearly gave. "Don't kill me," he babbled, closing his eyes to hide the triumph as he heard her sigh in amusement. 

"I wouldn't kill you. You're pack." Alecto withdrew, her stance almost regal as she regarded him. "If you have a wand, make yourself useful with day-to-day tasks. If I see or hear of you using it for reasons that are contrary to this pack -- if I hear that you do anything that is contrary to the will of Fenrir -- then I will see you dead, as I would any other traitor. You understand?" 

"I understand." Jeremy looked up at her and drew a shaky breath, pulling himself up and immediately opening the door. "Don't worry about me. Like I told you," he joked weakly, "I'm useless." 

She walked past him without another look. "I expect so," she said, just as flippant as he had been. She had heard enough. It was time to tell Laurel, the wildest of Fenrir's converts, that an inevitable traitor was in their midst.

Once he was certain she was gone, Jeremy shut the door again and pressed his eyes closed as tightly as he could, taking in every piece of information he could. Parchment was out of the question, now. Vengeance kept his focus sharp until footsteps began and kept the loneliness from overwhelming him. It was no longer a matter of trivia; this information would either see him dead or alive, and Jeremy Curenton had damn well not survived everything else just to die needlessly by the hands of some brainwashed crusader of a werewolf pack.

~*~

_December 1979_  
The night the Den had burned had been a long one, but it was only the start of nightmares for Ben Skoll's pack. Being attacked at what was thought to be neutral territory was bound to make things frantic, and the bloody, terrifying manner in which it had occurred hadn't made things easier.

If Skylar concentrated on keeping track of Ben's pack, then she could forget the fact that the nightmare had come to pass at all. The first person she'd looked for was Gemma, and she'd found her almost immediately. Once she finally managed to disentangle herself from the small girl's arms, she made it her business to find their other pack members who'd been transported against their will to this hell of a pack.

Elisa, an unnamed sister of Ben's, had died the day after, from a head wound. She simply never woke up. Rory, left to his own devices, probably would have been content to slip into a catatonic state, but Sky gave responsibility of making sure he was all right to Gemma, and in turn gave the two of them to Shelagh, Keith's second and Rory’s sister, to watch over. Sean had arrived by portkey clinging to the body of Lucas, Ben's only unnamed. 

Diana, Ben's second, was the worst of all. She'd seemed fine, but in the daylight she'd looked like death walking. Anything she ate came right up, including water, and yet the slightest effort of moving made her break out in a sweat until she was drenched while a fever raged. Skylar hadn't known what was wrong with Diana, but a former Healer amongst the unnameds had diagnosed it: a Wasting Hex. Skylar had been what everyone called a Muggle before Ben bit her, and she had never heard of it -- but it seemed aptly named. Diana had died a few days later, skin and bones, too weak to beg for a quick reprieve.

Skylar's concern was now Cort. He was her second named, and a stubborn teenaged boy if there ever was one. He'd insisted that his stomach wound was nothing to worry about, but in the past few days it had gotten worse rather than better. She brought him some water where he was propped up against the wall, trying not to look ill. It wasn't working very well. "Here, drink some more," she said, pushing the cup into his hands.

Cort eyed the water and looked like he wanted to snap at her, but took it and swallowed some. "Oh, look at that, I feel replenished," he said dryly.

"You're not well, save your sarcasm," she added, pulling up his shirt to check the makeshift bandage. It was a relatively small wound, all things considered, but Skylar knew and recognised an infection when she saw one.

"I'm fine," he said, struggling to sit up a little straighter, as though that would make him appear healthier. A sheen of sweat betrayed him when it showed on his forehead and he sagged against the wall.

She brushed his blonde fringe out of his eyes, and he let her. She took a chance on a more maternal act of touching wolves, but he didn't seem to have the will to resist it. She didn't take that as a good sign. Cort took refuge in the tie for that moment; his wolf was pained, uncomfortable, and weakened. His eyes closed for a moment, and she was so wrapped up in the two of them that she didn't immediately notice when Gemma snuck up behind her, not until Gemma pulled at their tie. "Is he okay?" she whispered loudly.

"I can hear you, Bit," Cort told her without opening his eyes.

"Sorry," she said meekly, but relaxed again when he nudged her wolf playfully.

Skylar looked behind her, and Gemma's dirty, worried face was staring back at her. Rory was beside her, with one of Gemma's hands clenched around his as though she was afraid he would bolt otherwise. "I told you not to leave Shelagh," she told her.

"She knows," Gemma said with a shrug.

Rory's throat stopped, and he cleared his throat. "We can do something," he said, his voice strained. "There's a Healer with the unnameds. Or -- or I think I remember seeing how they did stitches -- "

"What're stitches?" Gemma asked, blankly staring up at Rory.

"They -- they sew skin back together to heal it," Skylar said. 

"Why does that work?"

" _Gemma,_ " Skylar snapped, and pulled at their tie sharply. Gemma yelped reflexively, shrinking back. Though Skylar normally loved Gemma's curiosity, her patience for incessant questioning was short these days. She felt immensely guilty, and loosened their tie, being more gentle. Gemma touched back only hesitantly, but moved closer to Rory. 

"Sky," Cort said, and got her attention again with a hand on her arm. "It's okay." He readjusted so he could see Rory and Gemma. "Stitches work just 'cause they do, Bit. I dunno if they're for me, though."

"They might work, no point in not tryin', I don't know why we should just give up!" Rory got more fierce and worked up by the moment, colour coming to his face. "They work for Muggles and we're not so different and it might work depending, my auntie was a nurse and she showed me how once, when I fell off the roof -- I could do it!"

"What're you gonna do, spit in your hands and clap until you get the needle and thread?" Cort asked pragmatically. "Stitches aren't gonna help me, kid. It's infected."

Gemma wanted to ask what infected really meant, but was frightened of another reaction from Skylar like she'd gotten before. "Can I see?" she asked instead.

"Gemma, no," Skylar insisted, even though Cort had started to lift his shirt. "They don't need to see that."

"Sky, you always say that the kids need more learning opportunities," he said, beginning to peel their makeshift bandage away from his wound. It was crusted with blood and fluid, skin streaked red and inflamed.

"What we _need_ is hot water, gauze, and broad spectrum antibiotics," she said dryly, and touched Cort's forehead -- although she wasn't sure why, she'd never been good at being able to tell a fever by touch.

Rory backed up a few steps and pulled away from Gemma entirely, just covering his face with his hands so he wouldn't bolt entirely. "... It's gross," Gemma said, growing quiet and feeling quite afloat now that Rory was several feet away, more than he had been in nearly a week. 

"Yeah," Cort conceded. "No skin death yet though, I guess we won't see that until right before I -- "

"Cort. _Shut. Up,_ " Skylar hissed at him. She was about ready to eviscerate him herself if it was going to get him to stop talking about dying. Unfortunately, Skylar being short again was all it took for Gemma to start crying. 

It took the split second of hearing a sniffle for Rory to stop brooding and put his arms around her, forcing himself to look over at Cort. "Don't give up," he said. "Just. Don't."

At Gemma's tears and Rory's words, Cort at least had the grace to look abashed. "Sorry, Bit," he apologised whole-heartedly.

"Don't be _sorry,_ don't die," she replied into Rory's shoulder, unable to look back at Cort. 

Skylar replaced the bandage and firmly pulled his shirt down over it. She gave him a significant look and he showed his understanding with a push of the wolf. "You need a new bandage, and cleaning it wouldn't hurt either. I'm going to see if I can find some things. Gemma, you and Rory need to go back to Shelagh -- "

"I ain't movin', I'm staying _here,_ " Gemma insisted, her cheeks still tearstained.

"We're staying," Rory said firmly, unmoving. "We're not leaving you, Cort, not now."

"Yeah, you're all noble and such," Cort chortled. He was resigned to being dead man walking -- or, rather, dead man laying on the floor -- but he was going to be sorry to leave them behind, especially here. 

Skylar was ready to tear her hair out. "Fine," she said, standing up. "You, stay here. Entertain them with something that isn't your festering wound." Cort gave her a droll salute, which might have been amusing if he weren't as white as a sheet. She left them and wandered into another room, looking -- she didn't know for what or for who, but she felt so helpless just sitting there that even aimless searching felt better than doing nothing. 

Alecto nearly walked into her, and laughed aloud at the sight of her -- Ben Skoll's little pack, if you could even call it that, was so pathetic that it was genuinely laughable. "Oh, look at you, you poor thing, mothering your near-dead. Would you like me to just put him out of his misery? No problem for me." She drew her wand. "Easy as anything."

Laurel leapt out of her chair and gave the witch a shove, ignoring the wand that was put in her face. "It's not your place to decide who in the pack lives or dies, though you seem to think so," she snapped. "He's pack, we do what we can to save him."

Skylar backed away from the witch's wand. "We're not your pack," she answered automatically, fiercely, only too late realising that wasn't going to get help for Cort -- if he could be helped at this point.

"Don't be stupid," Laurel said acidly, and edged the witch out of the conversation without much trouble, enough so that Alecto actually flounced off. "We're all one pack now, whether you like it or not. Fenrir said so."

She didn't like it. Not at all. "Then there's a member of _our_ pack with an infected stomach wound," she said, unable to resist the derision that slipped into her tone.

Laurel had nothing but disdain for Ben Skoll and his pack, but this was her duty. "There's a Healer in with the bastards. I'll get him."

"He's busy." Remus broke into the conversation with ease. What he knew about werewolf packs and their politics could still fit on the head of a pin, but it was growing steadily. Seeing Laurel and the woman who'd been pointed out to him as Ben Skoll's first and heir of his pack talking attracted his attention and even worried him slightly. "I'll see if I can help."

"What an honour to have you here with the rest of us," Laurel said, her voice flat, but at least it was an attempt at fawning. "Do you think you can help?"

He ignored it. "Perhaps."

"Fine, whatever," Skylar said, also ignoring Laurel. "He's in the next room. Come on."

"Hope you're not overreacting, Princess," Laurel said under her breath.

Skylar began to lead Remus into the next room. "What _can_ you do?" she asked, turning back and looking at him.

"I know... a little something about Healing charms," he said wryly. "Nothing fancy or even official, but I've had to learn to heal myself after full moons."

Sounded okay to her. "Fine," she said, and took him to Cort, who had engaged Gemma and Rory into some kind of three-way Rock, Paper, Scissors game. "Cort, this fellow member of our _wonderful_ pack is going to try and help you," she said with extreme false cheer, and then looked at Gemma and Rory. "This might get bad again, you might want to -- "

" _No,_ " Cort insisted so violently that it radiated along their tie and made Skylar wince. "No way in _hell_ is he touching me."

Skylar looked back at Remus, who stood a few feet away now, looking extremely uncomfortable. "What? I know he's not the Healer, Cort, but we don't really have a choice -- "

"Sky," Cort interrupted her, and stopped her from responding with another look. _You have to be kidding me, right?_ "He's the first. He's _Fenrir's heir._ "

Rory stared at Remus, swallowing hard, and gripped Gemma's hand. "But if he can help," he said faintly to Cort.

"No," Cort repeated, sitting forward although the effort clearly pained him. "I'm not going to let the second in command of some criminal, child-snatching _psychopath_ touch me."

Skylar hesitated and said, "Cort, listen to me. You're not feeling well, I get that, but he has a wand -- "

"He also has hands, how about you just lay me out so he can reach in and pull out my insides?" he asked nastily.

Laurel stepped forward, her knife immediately in hand. "Oh, maybe the witch was right, he seems to be begging for his death," she said.

" _No,_ " Gemma shouted, and was held back further only by a look from Skylar that contained badly masked panic. 

Remus stepped in, between Laurel and the wounded pack member. "No one needs to die here," he said quickly. He looked and kneeled down beside Cort who made no move to hide his contempt, wolf aggressive and at the front of his gaze. "Show me, and I'll do what I can to help."

Cort didn't answer at first, going contemplatively blank, and then he spat at Remus.

In that split second, Remus saw Laurel's hand tense around the handle of the knife and he knew he had to act. He rushed forward on his knees and pushed Cort back into the wall. He filled with regret when Cort cried out in pain and shuddered, but something had to be done. "Listen to me," he hissed, so only the two of them could hear. "If I don't help you, you're not likely to get any. Laurel's ready to slit your throat and that'll be if you're lucky -- if you're not she'll hand you off to Wesley and he's not going to be quick about it." Only then did Remus back away. _Understand?_

Cort understood. He'd still rather die and roast in that hell than this one. He didn't say anything, but relaxed against the wall and lifted his shirt for Remus to check.

"Good job, Remus," Laurel positively cheered, with a laugh. "Show the little bastard what's what!"

Rory gripped Gemma's hand hard so he wouldn't say anything, forcing himself to look at Cort's face and not the wound. "I hate her," he whispered, barely audible.

"Me too," Gemma whispered back, uncharacteristically petrified.

Being cheered on by Laurel didn't make Remus feel any better, and the wound in the boy's stomach was only more bad news. "You should go look after the other unnameds, Laurel," he said, unable to help but be pointed in his comment.

Laurel withdrew as though slapped, indignant and stung, but stalked away without a word to the first of the pack.

That was probably going to result in another injury, somewhere else. Remus pushed the possibility away from his mind and lifted up the bandage on Cort's stomach. His heart practically stopped at what he saw. "That is... a serious wound," he said, rather inconsequentially, but set about examining it.

"No kidding," Cort said. "Hurt like hell, too, but then again I guess you don't have to worry about Wesley sticking a knife in _your_ gut in the middle of the night -- or maybe you do, but I wouldn't. Brainwashed assassins aren't generally the power-hungry sort -- "

"Cort, honestly," Skylar finally managed to cut him off through her complete shock. "Stop it. Would it kill you -- "

"Yes," he said flatly, and there was a horrible silence that followed. "Not that it matters."

Skylar didn't have anything to say to that. She kept silent so that she wouldn't yell at him, cry, or both. She moved to sit on the floor beside him and let him lean tiredly against her. She smoothed his hair back and looked back at Fenrir’s heir. "Just... do whatever you can to make him comfortable. Please."

Remus nodded. He wished that he knew more about Healing, there had to be something for this boy. Too many had died already. He looked back at the much younger boy and girl who somehow managed to hide behind each other, and back to Cort. He didn't have a good feeling about this one.

Cort shrugged back. "I don't even really feel much of anything, anymore," he said honestly. "I know it's only going to be time."

“Don’t talk like that,” Skylar said, trying not to think about how he was now drenched in sweat. She swallowed. “Ben wouldn’t want us talking like that.”

Cort looked up at her with the most hopeless look Remus had managed to see in the last few days. “Ben isn’t here, Sky. And if he were, they probably would have killed him.”

Gemma began to cry again, quietly. Remus saw Skylar reach to take her from the arms of the boy, even as she kept an arm around Cort. The girl hid her face in Skylar’s shoulder but kept a tight hold on the boy’s hand. He looked away, he didn’t feel like he had the right to watch this. "Well. Maybe you can be comfortable for that time," he said to Cort, keeping an eye on the wound and trying to remember his medical charms.

He laid his head back into Skylar’s shoulder. He was exhausted, and if he closed his eyes, he could pretend it wasn't Fenrir's heir laying hands on him. "I'm going to die in this pack, I don't know how that can possibly be comforting."

Remus hesitated, but after a long moment where he found no good words to use, began his charmswork.

~*~

Twiddle had quite literally fallen off his chair when he'd read that the Den burned to the ground. Very shocked, he picked himself up off the floor of his office and read the headline again to make sure that he'd read it correctly. And he had.

He felt very nasty in doing so, but he'd laughed a little bit.

And now, some time later, nothing had really changed. The Registry still did mostly nothing, their new secretary had been working well and had, amazingly, not quit on them. Things had consequently grown quite dull. 

He returned to the Registry following a department meeting and looked at the map on the wall. "It's strange."

Those were words that Elliot Pittiman had hoped would never come out of his apathetic, unobservant boss's mouth. He sat up, looking up from the crossword he was working on and said, the epitome of casual, "What's strange?"

Twiddle looked at Pittiman and back to the map. "There was always a cluster where the Den was. And now there isn't really anything there," he said.

Contrarily, Pittiman stared at Twiddle and then to the map. "Mr Twiddle, how closely do you read the newspaper?" he asked, writing M-O-R-G-A-N painstakingly into his crossword.

He shrugged. "Some days closer than others. Depends on how much I'm actually expected to accomplish."

"The Den was nearly burned to the ground last month. There were a number of casualties," Pittiman said, writing L-E-A-C-H into the crossword next.

"Well, that much I knew," he said dryly. "Curenton reported to MLE that Greyback was there but nobody actually buys that, I don't think. It's just strange to see the map without that cluster."

"Because Greyback would head straight back to the scene of the crime, right?" Oh, when he thought about it, he really hated the Death Eaters.

He chortled in return. "Obviously," he said. "Greyback's more a ghost story than anything these days, anyway."

"He could be dead." Pittiman shrugged. "There's no telling. The Death Eaters use what they can to wreak terror, and a ghost story like a man who preys on children is just their style. My children ask me sometimes and I just assure them that the Ministry has a handle on things."

"If Greyback were dead, that would solve a _lot_ of problems," Twiddle sighed. Of course, it would probably create a myriad of others that he was possibly incapable of imagining, so who knew what was actually the better situation. "And I suppose you're right... Death Eaters will use whatever they can. Sad sort of world we live in these days.”

"Well, I trust the Minister to get us out of this," Pittiman said, having to take a real effort not to speak in complete irony. "In one way or another. But no need to bother with politics." He stood, and considered the map, then drew it with his wand away from Wales to England. "Here's a group -- " he paused, and stared at the very small cluster that had always been there that was now gone. "Oh."

"Oh?" he said, not much liking the sound of that.

Shit, he'd said that out loud. "Oh. They moved," he improvised, and stepped back, pointing at the cluster that had yet to move while he'd been looking at this map. "It looks like the one that was here joined this one."

"Oh. Huh," Twiddle said, whatever that meant. As far as he could tell one dot was the same as the other.

Pittiman was far too used to lying. "If it weren't for the tracking charms we'd never find them, they're like teenagers, running around the Isles without a thought to the safety of others or themselves. Not that I know much about teenagers, not yet, anyway. I'm not looking forward to it, either."

"No, you're right," he answered. "Clara, my oldest, just turned fourteen. I have to wonder if her mother's bothered to explain that there's a war on. But at least if they're in school I know where they are."

"Tim's not far from Hogwarts at all, that'll be a comfort. One less for Charlotte to dote on, but she'll be fine. They're safe at Hogwarts, after all, especially with Dumbledore as Headmaster."

"Well, at least some place is," Twiddle said, and ducked as a memo flew into the office and over his head. He snatched it out of the air and looked at the subject -- generic, from maintenance. He left it on the secretary's desk. "Where did she go, anyway?" he asked Pittiman.

Pittiman shrugged. "The loo, I think, to fix her face or something," he dismissed. "Or, oh, that's right, there was a run in her stocking."

"Like that face needs fixing," he answered. The memo fluttered again like a butterfly with a broken wing, and he weighed it down.

"I suggest giving her a pay raise, she raises morale," Pittiman said dryly. "And she's better than the last two."

"I think I might actually bother to learn this one's name. She might stick around," he said.

"It begins with a T, doesn't it?"

"T, Q, R, Z, buggered if I know."

Pittiman opened his mouth to speak, paused, then wrote in the last word in the crossword puzzle. "Memo incoming," he noted, offhand.

"Sod it, I already accomplished something today." Twiddle sighed and reached for this one out of the air, annoyed when it hovered just out of his reach. He jumped and caught it. It was from their esteemed Department head. "Bollocks," he swore and headed for his office.

With no crossword and no one to talk to, Pittiman put his elbows up on his desk and stared at the wall before concluding that there was no work to be done, for the Ministry or the Death Eaters, and so he simply began to draw huge, heavy mustaches onto every photograph in the section of the newspaper he bothered to read. All in all, a hard day's work.

~*~

Julia wasn't normally a person who needed to be with people. Similarly, she didn't want to think of herself as a person who defined herself by other people. She was quiet, and she was a bit of a loner, but she was her own person who had aspects of her life that didn't involve Jeremy. At least, in as far as those aspects of her life continued without him.

That was the depressing part. It didn't feel right that the rest of the world wanted to keep going when Jeremy had been ripped from her twice now. But she knew what she'd been getting into from the moment he'd relented at Hogsmeade over a year ago. He'd told her every time he went to visit a pack, and everything came with a risk. For this reason, she couldn't quite let herself cry, because it never seemed quite appropriate. Silly at best and pointless at worst, all it would do is make her feel worse and nothing would change.

But no matter how she rationalised it, what she felt became too big to be contained within her. She allowed herself to cry, cursing herself all the while because she couldn't make herself curse him.

Being mad at the world took a lot of energy, but it wasn't as though she had anything or anyone else outside of work to expend it on. What members of her family she saw on a somewhat regular basis didn't seem to notice her descent into silence, and they probably would have considered Jeremy's disappearance little more than the arrival of something inevitable. She hadn't heard from Gilly since she'd started a string of tryouts for practically every professional Quidditch team in the league, and after what had happened in their kitchen, she fully expected to never hear from the Curentons again.

Which was why it was a surprise for Julia to find Owen Curenton sitting in her cubicle waiting for her one day late in the month. "What are you doing here?" she asked curiously, once her heart dislodged itself from her throat.

"Hello." Owen greeted her pleasantly with his characteristic light, but slightly tired smile. "Nice cubicle. Reminds me of the one I had at the _Prophet_ before they sacked me."

"I've seen bigger matchboxes," she quipped, feeling her cheeks flush. She edged her way past him to go behind the desk. She lifted her camera bag over her head and placed it on the floor beside her chair before she went ahead and sat. "I thought you quit."

"Today is more of a 'I was sacked' day than a 'I quit in a blaze of righteous fury' day," he said flippantly, but with a tired undercurrent.

Julia understood the sentiment immediately, and she nodded. "Why are you here?" she finally asked. 

"Well. I came to return these," he said, showing her the stack of photographs he pulled from his robes. They were the photographs she'd left in their kitchen on that day. He laid them on the desk for her. "And also, I have… somewhat of a proposition for you."

She pushed the lump in her throat down when she saw the photographs. "That has to edge on inappropriate, don't you think?" she covered the upset.

"I never would have picked you as having a sarcastic streak," he remarked in return, sitting back in the chair again and scratching his jaw.

"One of my many talents." Her fingers spread across the glossy finish on the photograph of a view of the village from the crest of the hill. "What is it?"

"Well," Owen started, straightening in the chair and looking at Julia straight on for the first time since she sat down. She stared down at the photographs on her desk and her hair fell into her eyes. "You… are a talented photographer."

She looked up and quickly down again. "Thanks."

He paused, unsure of how to phrase what it was that he wanted to say. "May we speak freely?" he asked, indicating to the open corridor just outside of the cubicle. 

Unsure of how free he wanted to be but easily able to imagine how free his words could become, she cast an Imperturbable Charm. "Now we may." 

"Thank you." He smiled reassuringly at her. "I was wondering if I might borrow your talents."

Julia stared back at him blankly. "What?" she asked. "I don't -- why?"

"Well," he started, really unsure of what to say at this point. Most of the reason he'd come to see her was to see if she was doing well, and though there was no telling by one look, she was here and alive and that was a good place to start. He scratched his unshaven jaw uncomfortably.

She saved him the trouble of finding what to say next. "It's fine. If you feel like you owe me or something because Jeremy and I… just please don't. It's fine."

Her repetition of the word didn't do much to convince him, and he wasn't sure that it did anything for her, either. "Regardless," he started, "Brighid and I talked about it, and the Den is going to restart… where, I'm not sure yet, but it will be soon as humanly possible. And, well… insurance likes photographs," he finished lamely.

She looked down at the photograph again. It was one of her favourites, she'd been playing with the new lens that she'd received from her family as a congratulations gift for completing school. If she'd snapped it half a second later, Jeremy's hand would have been clearly in the shot. She made herself look back at Owen. "I told you, if you feel like you need to do something for me -- "

"Julia, no, that's not -- " This was frustrating. Mostly because she had pinpointed part of the reason that he had even bothered to ask and made it clear that she would have none of it. "Fine, that is part of it, but whether you realise it or not, you did something amazing for him. For all of us."

She swallowed. "I didn't do anything," she protested weakly.

"You gave a damn, it's a lot more than a lot of people would have done," he replied. "Brighid and I, we're mum and dad. We're _supposed_ to care, even though… sadly, it's not always the case. No one else has the obligation. You gave him a friend when he was lonely, and that's probably worth more than anything."

There was no possible way she could have looked Owen Curenton in the face right at that moment if she'd wanted to. "If you want to put it that way, I was the one returning the favour." She shifted her glance slightly up, but still uncomfortable. The words were coming faster and easier now, a deluge of memories. "We were paired in Herbology and he would just not stop talking to me, even outside of class."

Owen couldn't help but smile at that. "That sounds like him. Still, what you did after… it wasn't easy." He paused. "These things have a way of separating out fair-weather friends."

For a long moment, there was a very awkward silence that neither of them were sure they wanted to break. They looked at each other, and finally Julia said, "Is this the part where we introduce the elephant in the room?" He didn't answer right away. "His name's Joshua Frobisher and he was my dad. You seem to know him already."

"'Know him' is a bit of a stretch," Owen said, making quite a heroic attempt at being nonchalant. He scratched the side of his neck. "I'd suspected, but… well. Really, how does one casually bring that sort of thing up."

She was rather glad that he hadn't. "No, I suppose there isn't a good time to bring up your son's girlfriend's dead father. Particularly when he's an executed werewolf." She swallowed hard, and hid her eyes. "But, you know. Thanks for preserving the anonymity in print and everything."

"Particularly then," he agreed quietly, ignoring her attempts at levity. He examined her for a moment, and cleared his throat. "I'm sure things were… beyond helping."

"They weren't." Her tone was unexpectedly cold, and she felt for a moment that she might be ill. She didn't want to do this in front of Owen -- she didn't want to do it at all. She swallowed again and said, "My mother wasn't. She -- she left. I don't know why."

There had never been any indication that that was what had occurred. It was known that Joshua Frobisher's children had been taken from him, and it was presumed that it had been by a wife -- ex-wife? -- Ministry records weren't public knowledge on that detail. "I hadn't known. I'm sorry," he answered very gently and truly sorry. Suddenly, Julia as a person made a lot more sense.

She'd told herself that she wasn't going to do this, because it was far too easy to slide down that sorry slope, especially without someone to give her a hand up. "It…" She wanted to falter, but the words were coming too easily. "After all this time, it's just a part of my life. All the wondering what I could have done, to… to keep them. Eventually, you just stop expecting things from people and take the good where you can get it and when the bad comes… well. It was coming anyway."

"Some people call that pessimism," Owen said.

"When you've had a different experience than mine, sure." She quickly swiped at her cheeks with her sleeve. "I want good things, and I know a good thing when I see it, but I don't expect it. I guess… I want him and I miss him worse than I ever did before, but that's what I get for thinking I could have him for keeps now."

This was easily the most that he'd ever heard her say at one time. He found that he had no easy words for her, and so he conjured a handkerchief for her. "I see," he said, and handed it to her.

"I'm sorry," she immediately added, mopping her face and trying to breathe easily. "God. You should go, you don't need to listen to me spouting off about this." I shouldn't have said anything.

"You should never apologise for being honest," he said, still absorbing most of her words and sorting it out. "Keeping things in… only does more harm than good in the end."

Privately she wasn't sure that she agreed with that, but she nodded anyway. "So. Another Den."

"Another Den," he said with a bit of a sigh. "It's too important."

"Why?" she asked.

"I know." He shook his head. "I don't know where, but, I'm not sure that it'll be on our old location, but I just feel like it would be impractical. Fenrir's made it clear that he intends to do everything he can to silence me, including taking my children and destroying my work. So we're going to go where he's not."

She noted the fading bruises on his neck. Her first thought was _what if he goes home and no one's there?_ "Isn't that sort of like letting him win?" she asked.

"A battle. Not the war," he said. "As long as I can, I'm not going to slow down."

"That's obvious," she noted dryly.

In site of himself, Owen smiled. "I won't pretend that it doesn't sadden me to leave that land. I love Pembrokeshire."

"Me too," she admitted.

"Then we have something in common," he said kindly. "The Den was one my family's house -- ages ago. My mother and I left after my father was killed. He was an Auror, during the Grindelwald years," he detoured when he saw Julia's eyebrows raise. "We lived with her family, in Galway. But it never felt quite right to me. I didn't inherit the house until after I married Brighid, and… well, my brilliant idea." He gave a self-deprecating smile.

"I didn't think it was bad," she murmured.

"At any rate, it's being resurrected, likely in or near a city. Fenrir Greyback wouldn't dare show his face in a city."

"I thought packs didn't go through cities." She was unable to quite believe Owen in many ways. He was much like Jeremy in some scary ways, and that was all she could think of.

"A wrinkle in my plan," he admitted. "But I can't not try."

"Guess you wouldn't be you if you didn't," she admitted, looking at her desk.

"I get that a lot," he said. "How about it then? Can I call on you?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. "Depends. You know where to find me."

"Fair answer," he said, pleased. He's made it his policy to never accept a no until it was accompanied with a threat to be forcibly removed, and even then it was acceptable to try later. "You know where to find me as well, in the meantime. I'll send along the address for the new Den once things get finalized." He stood up, adjusting his robe. "Please do think on it. We really do want to hear from you."

She nodded. "Bye," she told him, a bit dully, with a headache beginning to plague her. He left without another word, and even though she thought she should have felt better than she had, she somehow felt even emptier than before.

~*~

Conor's patience was only now, after all of the ridiculous, megalomaniacal stunts Fenrir had pulled, beginning to wear down. _Go to Aaron's pack,_ Fenrir insisted, and as Conor much preferred to keep both himself and his pack members alive, he agreed. Aaron was a stubborn bastard, just orthodox enough to go on and on about Fatherhood and pack law, yet refused the idea of unified pack right away.

 _Tell him that an alliance is the best he'll get,_ Aaron told him. _Nothing less and definitely nothing more._

For the sake of his life, Conor was going to translate somewhat freely. For now, he was just going to come "home." He stumbled in the door, ignored the children happily squealing as the assassin Wesley ran after them in pursuit, and collapsed bonelessly into the nearest chair. Being the property of a fugitive made travel much more difficult.

Briony was unhappy in the unified pack; she missed their own house, she missed Geoffrey, but, perhaps more importantly, hated the idea of the unified pack. It was crowded, the result of bloodshed and intimidation, and continued acquiring more pack members as Fenrir made a grab for every werewolf he could find. With so many in one place, it was hard to find a place to be alone with her thoughts, and she normally kept to herself. That was harder than it sounded, although if Conor was gone -- as he was often, sent by Fenrir here and there to speak with the larger packs -- no one really gave her a second look.

She could tell that he was coming back, she could feel him come nearer and waited with silent impatience. When she heard the door open, she jumped up and immediately pulled at their tie in order to seek him out. She didn’t need to look far, and she found him easily. “You’re back,” she said, practically falling over herself to sit near him, somewhat joyfully, but mostly relieved.

The elated touch of their wolves and the welcome sense of pack came with a rush of relief, and he brushed hair from her face, tired but at least content at her arrival and closeness. "I'm back. And I may even survive a meeting with the leader of our unified pack," he said as neutrally as possible.

“I would hope so,” she said. He did look exhausted. She didn’t move from where she rested, but their brief silence was companionable. “It’s not the answer he wants, is it?”

"No one in their right mind would expect to hear _that_ answer from _that_ man to the question Fenrir had me ask." He stroked her hair and allowed himself to relax. This was as close to home, to their memories of pack, that they could hope for. "I expect we'll see the usual bloodshed and many new members added to our family within the week."

“Great,” she murmured, completely sarcastic. The proposition wasn’t a welcome one. She hated the constant warring and struggle. It was tiring, and masking her agitation only added to the problem. She looked up at him. “What about you? Are you well?”

Conor looked down at her. Activity in the house seemed to be moving towards the smell of food wafting from the kitchen, but he ignored it. "I've become an optimist, Briony. I live and so does my pack." _And my niece._ Where was Jane? He might never see her again. At least she lived, or so he had to hope, as there was no evidence to the contrary. "I don't ask for much more than that, and I never have."

“Okay,” she answered easily. If he was all right, this could be bearable, at least for awhile. She didn’t like being Fenrir’s hostage to control Conor, but no one had asked her. “I’m just glad you’re back, then.”

"Has anything happened, anything of interest?" He wasn't sure he dared to think of anything but Fenrir’s plans at this point, but it couldn't hurt to be aware of possible threats. "The witch, his first, anything?"

Briony kept careful track, as well as she could. It made sleeping at night easier when you knew who was going to have the opportunity to stab you in the back. "Not really," she spoke hesitantly. "The witch is the same, and I think… Fenrir’s first is strange, I don’t know what’s wrong to him. He’s mostly with himself, doesn’t feel right."

"And Wesley's left you alone." He touched her neck, the scar, and let his wolf accept his frustration. "Fenrir's threatened to let Wesley loose on you if I speak against him. You might do best to find some allies."

“Maybe,” she said, swallowing. Wesley made her more nervous than Fenrir these days, and that was saying something. “He’d kill me if Fenrir would let him.”

"He would. He failed to kill you, and his sort, Fenrir's sort..." Conor scanned the room as best he could, his paranoia satisfied. Most everyone was likely eating and socialising, casually, as though this false pack was a real home. Their absence wouldn't be noted. "They repay those debts, and then some."

"You're not bloody kidding."

The wry comment from the doorway jarred Conor, and made him sit up straight and curse himself for not being vigilant enough. He stared at the boy, who stood there as though he had the right to be speaking as he was. "I would advise you to move on," Conor said, speaking stiffly, as a pack leader.

Briony startled, and turned to look – it was the first time she’d seen him since her botched attempt to bring him to the pack, over a year ago. "Jeremy," she said, half in warning and half in grudging recognition.

Now his arrogance made more sense; he was the entitled son of the activists. "Curenton," Conor greeted, with a cold nod and nothing else.

Jeremy returned an equally cold nod to the pack leader, and only barely looked at Briony. "It’s a pity your pack fell, Conor," he said. "There were so many hopes that you'd succeed. Beliefs, even. In your leadership."

"And you would know this _how_ exactly," Conor snapped off, fully prepared for this sort of challenge from a werewolf who continued to be raised as a wizard. "You, the bastard of a pack -- " 

Jeremy shrugged the supposed insult off just as easily. "And you're a bastard of the Greyback pack. Names mean nothing. They just make things easier." He finally looked at Briony. "You see, I learned," he said dryly.

"I see that," she answered in a similar tone. She couldn’t say that she was particularly glad to see him, if only for the fact that it meant he was here, in this joke of a pack. "I guess Fenrir got his hands on you in the end anyway." 

He considered that. "No," he said. "But I found a pack, you know, since I never got to yours. But you two seem to be warming to this unified pack, so I can only imagine what Conor's famed pack was like before."

She couldn’t help but glare up at him. "This isn’t a pack," she answered, "and I hate being here."

Jeremy glared back at her, the wolf vivid and angry in the front of his gaze as he lost control. "Then why the hell were you trying to bring me here?"

He obviously hadn’t been here long enough to get it as well as he thought he did. "I didn’t have a choice, right?"

"Everyone has a choice in what they do," he said, in disbelief. "You can take the path of least resistance or you can fight, and you were willing to sell me out -- _two months_ you spent lying to me and my father, and I’m supposed to think you’re better than him? At least he didn’t pretend to be a friend -- "

" _Briony._ " Conor didn’t entirely understand what was going on, and stressed his tie to his first, too angry to bring himself to do something to this boy who dared speak to her this way. Besides, Fenrir didn't look kindly to anyone who abused members of his pack besides those he ordered to. "Is there a problem?"

She swallowed, a flush creeping up her neck. "Well." She looked back at Jeremy. "I tried to bring him back here last year, and the witch didn’t like my timing and tried to kill him." She pulled back at him. _I didn’t have a choice, you know it._

"Ah, yes, that. Fenrir’s first act of war," Conor said, bitterness creeping into his tone. "We had no choice, Curenton. She meant to bring you here unharmed. I suggest you forget your grudges, close your mouth, and quietly accept your place in the unified pack. Fenrir doesn’t think much of free-thinkers."

Jeremy looked at Briony as her Father spoke. "You have options. I know what I’m doing, and I know that he can be stopped."

"Enough." The low buzz of conversation, a few shouts, came from the room where the supposed pack gathered, but Conor didn't want to risk any of this being heard. "Traitorous words won't be had in Fenrir's pack. Save your words for your own kind, or you may suffer a punishment by Wesley.”

"And _he’s_ not going to stop at just knocking you in the head," Briony added to him.

At the memory, Conor released Briony, got to his feet, and spoke harshly. "I should go, share my news. I'll distract them, deal with this, just be cautious. They'll be in a rampage once I'm done so don't step out of line after this," he warned, leaving his first with the impudent bastard.

She relaxed after being released, and took her time returning to conversation with Jeremy. "He’s right, we have to be more careful with what we say."

He shook his head at her, and raised a hand as though they were back at the Den, and she was to await his explanation. " _He_ has to be careful about what he says. You don't, I don't, we're just here as fodder for Fenrir’s wars. You can't tell me you don't want revenge for what he did to your pack, for how he’s used you. You and I and all of the nobodies in this pack have all the time in the world to prepare ourselves to strike back. Or are you really just another one of his sort, liars and sneaks?"

For a moment she was speechless, and then gave a small noise of disbelief. “It doesn’t matter if I do, I can’t do anything. I’m just me.” She might have liked to see Wesley have a slow death for what he’d done to Geoffrey, but it wasn’t going to happen.

Just like that, Jeremy found himself wearing the same sort of crooked smile he’d given her back during tours and football matches and discussions at the Den, and it faded at the memory. “You would be surprised by what you could do, if you cared enough to make the effort,” he said. “But all you do is make excuses. The past is behind us, right? And the unified pack is our bright future.”

“Oh… shut up,” she said, although it was mostly because she wasn’t sure she could stand to hear any more of that tripe, even if he was being obnoxious. “When I say I didn’t have a choice, I really didn’t see another option. I wanted to go _home._ ” So much for that.

He tucked his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows at her. “Now you do. Have an option, I mean.”

“What kind of option?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

“Help me. After all. You owe me.”

She still looked unconvinced. “I’m sorry about what happened, it… it wasn’t my finest moment. But I don’t know if I can.”

“You can tell me what Conor tells you and that's all I'll need. Trust me,” he said.

She stared at him. She wondered briefly if it was a trap for her; she couldn’t blame him. She could be caught, by Conor or anyone else, and punishment would undoubtedly be involved – her Father was nothing if not a fair man. She stepped closer to Jeremy and said, “He just got back from Aaron and his pack, who live in Ireland. Fenrir wanted them to submit to him willingly so we might not have to go get violent, but it doesn’t look like that’s happened.”

Jeremy couldn’t have been more surprised, but kept his face blank, and considered that. "Aaron, I know of Aaron, he's the one who Fathered Caleb, right?" He could picture the lines of inheritance, and that part, the Irish part, was clear enough. "Convenient. Well, at least they're warned to what's coming." He glanced behind him casually. "Are you hungry?"

“Aaron’s bloody stubborn, but Fenrir’s not going to rest until he has every werewolf in the Isles,” she scoffed. She should be there for Conor when Fenrir got the bad news, but she hadn’t been alone all day. “Not really.”

“He won’t get a chance.” Jeremy walked to the window and drew the drapes aside to look outside. “We’re ending this pack. I’m ending this pack, even if I die trying.”

She gave a small laugh, but stopped when he didn’t appear nearly as amused. “You’re serious.”

He glanced back at her. “He killed my sister. And he has to pay for that, in whatever way’s possible.”

Briony pulled the sleeves of her jumper over her hands, unsure of how to really respond. She’d known that, of course, but she hadn’t really ever thought about it. “Fenrir kills a lot of people,” she said, thinking of Geoffrey.

"He won't be able to do it much longer.” Jeremy looked at the desolate, icy landscape outside, thinking, then turned back to Briony. "Things are going to go to hell soon and I'm going to need you. If you can't find me, talk to one of Fenrir's unnameds."

She hesitated. “I’ll get a hold of you. Somehow.”

“Be careful. I’m a bastard, you’re Conor’s, we can’t be seen together,” he warned. “At least, not often. The witch suspects me enough.”

“And what is Conor in this pack but a useful bastard,” she said dryly. “The witch hates anyone who isn’t Fenrir, and I suspect even then it’s a matter of whether he’s got Laurel back in his bed instead of her.” She shrugged.

He shrugged back. “At least we’re on the same side of this thing now,” he said. “I’m going to eat -- bastards don’t really get three square meals or anything.”

She nodded in understanding. “Get it while you can.”

“Don't tell Conor," he added, still businesslike, unable to conspire too much with her. He couldn't have scared Fathers controlling their children, not for this to work. "Just don't." He withdrew from the room.

Briony exhaled and turned back to the window, curtains still open part way. She threw them open the rest of the way to let in the late afternoon sunlight, but also the chill from outside. She leaned on the window sill, silent and still as the yard outside.


	14. Little Holes

_What do I have to say to that? What do I have to say to that? Everyone is bollocksing this up like this is a dress rehearsal for the real war, that's what I have to say to that._ Newt Scamander in a statement to the press, 1 April 1980. (First draft.)

_March 1980_  
Damocles almost couldn't believe it. A year and some months into the project, they had developed what they hoped was a working model of their potion. It was incredible. These things usually took a number of years, perhaps even decades, but here they were, and they were so close they could taste it. "Just a couple more stirs, Sarah, we don't want the solution to dilute too much," he said, glancing over her shoulder and returning to his least favourite task of the project: painstakingly recording every last thing that was done. It was necessary, because they had to know what they were doing correctly or incorrectly.

Sarah licked her lips and blew her fringe out of her hair, nodding. "Just one more -- there," she said, withdrawing the silver spoon. "All that's left to do is serve it up, again."

Natalie Summers, a Healer, youngest on the team, merely stood to the side and hoped to get a good look. "Is it really done, Mr Chambers?" she asked the Herbologist who stood by, inventorying their group's personal stock of ingredients. 

"We hope so, Natalie." Chambers looked up to watch Sarah at the cauldron, scanned the list again, but decided not to comment. His warnings had only slowed them down, so far.

"Full moon's tonight, I suppose we'll see," Damocles said, dropping the parchment and quill. "Let's go, delivery time for Mr Winters." 

Sarah handed the beaker of the carefully measured amount to him. "All yours, Belby," she answered, exhaling. She liked to think of herself as a normally, fairly unexcitable person, but today was an exception. 

"Thank you," he said, motioning for them to come with, there was an entire myriad of questions that went with this, no stone was left unturned or unchecked. He suspected that their entirely voluntary test subject, Joseph Winters, was getting rather sick of the questions and the poking and prodding and necessary monitoring that went with an experimental potion development. To be fair, he was being compensated rather handsomely. He led them out of their small lab area to the end of a small hallway where he was being observed and housed for the duration of experimentation.

Natalie hurried past both of the much more highly ranked members of the team, eager to see both the concluding process and the results, and slowed when Chambers gave her a weary look.

"If this isn't it, the Ministry might have our heads," Chambers said to Sarah in a voice low enough that the assistant might not hear, folding the inventory and slipping it into his pocket. "You know, Dolores Umbridge has her signature all over _everything._ "

"I saw," Sarah answered wearily, "and if she starts with the sugary passive-aggressive shite again I shall take all the phials I can find and shove them down their throat. These things take _time._ "

"Okay, enough politics," Damocles said, nudging the door open with his foot. "Afternoon, Mr Winters," he said cheerily as the rest filed in behind him. The curtain was drawn around the bed, the room silent. Maybe he was sleeping. Damocles withdrew the curtain and very nearly dropped the beaker at what he saw. Joseph Winters was not sleeping, but simply unconscious. His skin had an ashen colour to it except for around his lips, where it tinged purple, and his breathing shallow and irregular. 

He shoved the beaker aside on the bedside table. "Natalie, I need you to help me with this; Chambers, notify the emergency team upstairs," he said, immediately taking out his wand and running proper charms while trying to manually find a pulse. _Don't you dare die on us, not now._

Natalie stared at the man until Chambers shouted at her, "Natalie, go." Only then did she jump into action, her lips moving as she assessed the situation and began rummaging in the stock potions stored on the cart outside for the proper cures. 

"So much for getting the Ministry off our backs," Chambers crossly muttered to Sarah on his way out.

Sarah didn't seem to be listening, taking a deep breath and trying to tell herself that Damocles was a professional who was going to do everything possible, as was Natalie. "What can I do?" she asked as calmly.

He had a pulse, but it was stringy and erratic. "The red one, look at the monitoring charms," he told Natalie, snatching it out of her hand when she offered it to him. He looked up at Sarah. "Make sure nobody but the emergency team and Chambers gets back through those doors," he said, immediately going back to what he was doing.

Natalie stepped back once the potion was delivered and fumbled with her pen in a panic as she tried to keep track of the readings. "Sorry," she managed.

There was no time for apologies right now. He'd lost all semblance of a pulse and monitoring charms confirmed it. "No, don't you dare," he muttered, placing his wand over Joseph's heart and announced, "Clear!" before he gave it a jolt of magic. And twice, three, four times, each jolt stronger than the last. After the sixth try, his professional pride told him to give up. Probably common decency as well. 

Natalie did her best to regain her composure and stood up straight, only to be immediately brushed aside when Chambers entered the room with the emergency team following. "...Never mind," Chambers said heavily. "Go back. There was an incident with a pair of hippogriffs," he said to Damocles, almost apologetic.

Damocles wasn’t answering, instead, breathing as evenly as possible. The excitement that had built came crashing to the ground in a mere matter of minutes. “We need to find out what caused this,” he said, “because this is not happening again.”

“ _Again?_ ” Sarah demanded. “You think that any decent human being is going to let this continue? We just killed a man, Damocles. An otherwise very healthy man.”

"Umbridge won't see it that way," Chambers interrupted, closing the door tightly and placing an Imperturbable Charm on it. This conversation wasn't one to be overheard. "She'll demand we keep on. And I think we should. The ends justify the means."

"She's psychotic! Of course she'll demand that we keep on!" Sarah said, gesticulating. "I said that this was going to be tricky beyond our imaginations, it might even be impossible. We're being asked to get water from a rock."

Chambers rolled his eyes and sat against the door. "Stop overreacting. I think I might know what happened. We just need another subject and we'll get this right. He _said_ it was under control, whatever that meant."

"And then he died," she replied bluntly.

The wolf had been under his control. Damocles knew what it meant for them, it may have been something different for him. It meant that they were on the right track. "We checked on him at noon, and he was fine. Which means whatever happened happened in the last three and a half hours. That's either a very rapid deterioration, or he was lying to us then. Natalie, you knew the charts best, was there any indication of this?" he asked the still shaken Healer gently.

"Erm," Natalie began, just a little jumpy at the attention moving to her. She did snap to her job, though, seizing the chart and flipping it back. "Just let me check -- oh, yes, his heart rate was descending but I figured that was good, it was always rather unnaturally high as it was, I just thought the potion was helping..."

"Helping neutralise," Damocles finished dully.

"Oh bugger it," Sarah said, disgusted. "We're meddling where we oughtn't to meddle, ends justifying the means my Aunt Circe."

"What could it have been?" Damocles asked her, and she gaped at him. "As a potions mistress, I am asking for your professional opinion. Please give it."

Sarah set her jaw, very nearly telling Damocles Belby _exactly_ what he could do with her professional opinion once she gave it. Instead, she listed carefully, "Any more aconite would kill an average human being, any less proved ineffective for our purposes. Dosages of this concentration had no notable effect until this morning according to him, and that was after only today, after three doses. My guess would be -- "

"A more dilute concentration over the course of more days?" he finished for her. She nodded, lips pursed.

"So all we need is another volunteer." Chambers spoke evenly, ignoring the fact that they were in the room with a dead werewolf, that they had failed once. "I've everything prepared for more servings -- and I think there was a touch too much fluxweed, that may have aggravated his condition."

"All _you_ need is another volunteer," Sarah corrected, already beginning to remove her credentials. "I quit."

"Sarah -- " Damocles started, but she interrupted him sharply.

"We all have lines that we don't cross, Damocles. We just sailed right over mine," she interjected. "You took an oath that says 'never do harm to anyone.' You think on that when you can't sleep tonight." Without any more, she strode past Chambers and threw open the door, not bothering to slam it behind her.

Natalie quivered when Sarah's footsteps faded away. "Now what?" she asked, mostly under her breath. 

“We talk to the morgue and then find another volunteer,” Damocles sighed. That had been a bastardly process, he wasn’t looking forward to doing it again. He drew the curtain around the dead man and moved to leave the room. “Back to the drawing board.”

~*~

There was to be no mistake about the capacity of Owen’s visit to Damocles today. He’d made an appointment and dressed up in the robes he wore when he needed to be taken seriously. It was a ritual more befitting a meeting of strangers rather than two men who’d known each other for thirty-two years. He was apprehensive because he knew that unlike most other people he spoke to in a professional capacity, Damocles was going to listen. Moreover, he was going to listen to him, understand his viewpoint, but he was still going to go ahead with his work.

At least if he were going to see another Healer, someone at the Ministry, there would have been some kind of tension or suspense. Here there was only futility and an impending sense of failure. Even Owen’s own particular brand of optimism was suffering. Normally he welcomed the challenge and seeming impossibility of success in his line of work, but he was dreading today.

Damocles wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, either. When Owen had something he wanted to talk about, he just waited in the office until Damocles had a moment. Business or personal, that was the way it had always been – before he had an office, he’d sat in the waiting room downstairs. There’d never been an appointment, or even any sort of formality. It was disorienting.

His mouth went dry when he heard the knock on the door and he cleared his throat. “Come in,” he said hoarsely, and shuffled some parchments, trying to look as though he’d at least been doing something other than staring at the door anxiously.

Giving no indication of his trepidation, Owen turned the doorknob and stepped inside as boldly as he ever did anything. The door shut behind them and the men regarded one another for several moments. There was no easy way to start this conversation, no script to follow, and both men, highly regarded professionals in their field, seemed at a loss of where to begin or even who should begin. _Fine, I’ll do it,_ Owen finally said to himself. “A man died, Damocles.”

“I know it,” replied Damocles and he swallowed, trying to make the dryness in his throat go away. “He did die. But we’re fixing it.”

“There’s no fixing death,” Owen snapped. By god, that was something he knew. “Isn’t it enough to tell you what sort of things you’re messing with?”

“He’s dead, there’s no denying. And what we were doing -- what he _volunteered for_ \-- caused his death, there’s no denying that either. But we’re pressing on,” he answered, determined to hold his ground against someone as indefatigable as Owen Curenton. 

This was going more or less as he’d imagined. Not two minutes in and they’d already made a loop back to square one. “Well,” Owen started, and pulled a week old copy of _The Daily Prophet_ out of the pocket of his robes. “At least when all this works out, you’re going to get something out of it too.” He scanned the article. “They say here the tireless efforts of you and your team members are to be commended, not condemned. They even mention an Order of Merlin -- "

“Okay, stop it,” Damocles interrupted him angrily. “You don’t get to do that, Owen. You don’t get to make this about what I can get out of a success, because it has _never_ been about me, you should know that. You know _me_ , have I ever been like that? Is anything you do for what you can get out of it?”

“So killing them in the name of something that you believe can help them is okay?” he demanded, ignoring the question that turned it back around on him. 

“Intention seems to be everything,” was his tart reply.

Owen faltered for a second. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

It was one of those things where even Damocles wasn’t sure what he’d meant, but it had come flying out too fast to stop or even think about. “Nothing. Owen… You should know that none of that even crossed my mind, and if you think I’m keeping on with this because of what my team and I could be rewarded with, then you’re mad. May God strike me dead if it ever becomes about that.”

“If God cares enough,” he replied caustically, but what they both knew was becoming obvious, that nothing was going to make this argument change. Neither would be swayed. “If it succeeds -- "

“It _will_ succeed,” Damocles said forcefully. It had to. It simply _had_ to. All the Ministry backing in the world wouldn’t matter to him if it didn’t work and another life was lost. It was one thing for a man who had been warned of all the risks and still gone along with them willingly, but two or more dead would weigh too heavily on his conscience. Sarah was right, he had taken that oath, and breaking that oath would kill him as surely as their concoction had killed Joseph Winters. “It’s – it’s too close _not_ to, Owen.” He leaned forward in his seat and, with an intensity that was rare from him, said, “He said it was under his control. It was under his control, we _had_ it.”

“Because you’re using _wolfsbane,_ you great prat, what do you expect?” Owen asked, trying to remain unaffected, but it was unnerving that they were that close to achieving something. “Wolfsbane to a man is lethal if you get enough of it, and for a werewolf even moreso. Essentially, you have the two halves, the man and the wolf, yes? You’re poisoning the wolf, making it too weak to take over during the full moon and leaving the man in charge of the wolf’s body.”

“Essentially,” he echoed. 

“And then what, the wolf just gets over it?” he asked. “It’s not going to like being poisoned – as it shouldn’t – and if it – it doesn’t just leave when the full moon’s over,” he added, his train of thought moving very rapidly and his mouth trying to keep up with it. “It’s part of the man. You can’t just ignore that symbiosis. If you think the man isn’t going to suffer one way or another for this, then I really don’t think that you’re thinking this through at all. And a level of tolerance will be built up over a long period of time if you keep trying to poison them month after month, eventually it won’t work anymore, and then what will you do? Up the dosage?”

“Since we don’t even have a way to test the new potion, I’m not so worried about it just yet,” Damocles said. “Volunteers just disappear into the woodwork once one of them dies.”

“They have a self-preservation instinct, how about that,” he said dryly. 

Damocles was running out of things to say to Owen. They could both talk until they were blue in the face, but if that was all it would achieve, then there really was no point in it. “You know,” he started slowly, “I know that I said this almost exact statement once before, over a year ago, but what are you trying to achieve? If this works, certain… things may be avoidable, and I’m sure that you of all people could appreciate it.” He finished the statement as delicately as possible, but there was no mistaking what (or rather, who) he was talking about.

Owen went white in the face. “If I don’t get to make this about that Order of Merlin they’re already putting your name on,” he said with a deadly calm, “then you don’t get to make this about Erin. I _told_ you that. You didn’t get to do that a year ago, and you don’t get to do it today, is that understood?”

“You can’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind,” he said, pushing down the guilt that the statement had incurred. 

“You can’t tell me that if Fenrir Greyback had been under the influence of this successful potion that you’re hoping to construct that Erin still wouldn’t be dead and Jeremy still wouldn’t be where he is,” Owen said, his frayed nerves showing. “Wherever he is. God _damnit._ ”

Owen may have been on the completely opposite side of this very important and emotionally charged political and ethical issue, but they had been friends long before they’d had any grand ideas about themselves or what they would do with their lives. Damocles liked to think that their friendship, while currently considerably strained, trumped it all. “Sit down, Owen, please,” he said, keenly aware of his friend’s distress.

He shook his head. He was still standing, with both of his children gone and only Brighid, a tenuous relationship with Julia, and whatever this had morphed into left. It was friendship, but friendship tempered by the terrible feeling of failure to make the other person see and agree with their point of view. “Erin would still be dead and I imagine if Fenrir had had his way, Jeremy would be too. We all would be, because an arrogant and dangerous man decided I had offended him.”

“It’s not only that,” he said hurriedly. “Accidents happen, they do, all the time. Practically anyone who comes into St. Mungo’s with a werewolf bite is a matter of unhappy chance and bad luck. Take Frobisher’s case, wasn’t any more than an accident, and he paid for it with his life. Why is that fair?”

“It’s not fair, you’ll never hear me say that. But the change doesn’t need to be by them, physiologically done with a potion. The change needs to be us with our laws and regulations. If we are going to try them in a wizard’s court, they have to be treated as wizards all the time, and not just when they do something wrong. It’s _not_ fair to subject them to the worst punishments of the wizarding world and marginalise them the rest of the time,” he answered. 

Damocles sighed. He was right to a certain point, about the laws. “Maybe the majority can’t change for the sake of the minority.”

“Maybe the majority needs to get over itself.” 

“Maybe so. I’m not going to stop, Owen. Even though you don’t think it’s the best way to help, it’s a way in which I _can_ help, and so I’m going to continue to do it.”

“Right,” Owen said. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot. He would fight this all the way, with anyone else he could bring along with him. “Say whatever you want against me to brush me off to the paper. I’m used to it. But if you try and bring Erin into this a third time then so help me we’re done, Damocles. I’ve been your friend for a long time but she was my flesh and blood. My daughter was innocent of anything _but_ being mine, and I won’t stand to have her be held up as a false martyr. The only thing her death shows is how absolutely bent Fenrir Greyback is on destroying me, and it has nothing to do with the argument we’re making now.”

Shame made Damocles’s cheeks go red, and he nodded. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said that, and won’t again.” _We both miss her, Owen._

‘Miss her’ didn’t even begin to cover what Owen still felt about Erin, even three years after her death. Some days he swore he was going mad because in that house he could still hear her laugh echoing benignly off the walls; whenever Jeremy ran from one end of the house to the next, when he’d been there, there was the empty silence that came with no little sister to be in hot pursuit to wherever he was going. Moving would force Owen and Brighid by necessity through their rooms, reliving each painful piece as they decided what should and must be kept and what they couldn’t bear to part with. It was a difficult task that neither were able to bring themselves to just yet, and it was just as well. “You won’t,” he echoed. “I’ll waste no more time here.”

Damocles nodded, unable to think of more to say, and a simple goodbye seemed out of place. He sat in silence as Owen left himself out, debate finished in a stalemate.

~*~

_May 1980_  
Aaron's pack refused to submit to the unified pack under Fenrir Greyback, so the solution was easy; Fenrir had to declare war on them. The main problem was solved by the pack's ambassador of sorts, Conor, who discovered at last where Aaron's pack had fled to England from Ireland. All that was left was to plan the attack with the pack members he trusted most, but even that had its problems.

"Enough," Fenrir shouted over the increasingly nasty debate between Laurel and Alecto about the constant debate of wands versus werewolves. "That’s enough. _I'll_ decide our plan, tell the rest of you when I have. All of you, out! Wesley, Remus, stay -- Laurel, attend to the children until Wesley takes over -- Alecto, go into the city." 

A dark look from Fenrir stopped the near-fight between the two women immediately, and Laurel ran out of the room. Alecto just snorted and followed Conor out with a wicked sort of smile, her intentions clearly nothing good, but inevitably the room emptied, leaving Fenrir and his first and second named sons alone. 

Fenrir drummed his fingers on his thigh, exchanged a glance with Wesley, and looked to his first. "Remus," he said, breaking the silence. "What do you suggest we do?"

_Leave them alone, you have enough wolves underneath you,_ he thought dryly. Not that he could have ever said such a thing, of course, not if he valued his life. "The element of surprise served you well in taking Conor's pack, as well as most of Skoll's at the Den," he said passively. If he didn't even give the situation true consideration, then he could not be held culpable. God, he hated himself sometimes.

It was a good response, more of one than Remus usually offered; obvious, too, but Fenrir was nonetheless pleased. "And what about Alecto saying we should let her and the wizards capture and bring the packs to us?" he prompted. 

"Eliminating the werewolves from the werewolves' war," Wesley said, his voice soft and his eyes on his worn shoes. "Fenrir, we must fight, I must fight -- "

"Who asked you?" Fenrir spoke acidly, only tilting his head to send a withering look at his second. 

"Remus has yet to see a single battle. I thought you might like someone with experience to talk."

Fenrir lashed out at Wesley over the tie, pleased at the usual deference from his warrior. "Go on, Remus."

Remus cast a wary sideways glance at Wesley. Strictly speaking, he supposed that there was a point to his words, but it wasn't as though he actually cared to see a single battle, as he said. The one he was living was uphill enough for him. "Wizards make a terrifying impression. It depends how you would judge the strength of their pack to be, whether their full force is merited." His own wand, hidden at his side, pressed against his skin like a lead weight.

Watching Fenrir stare at Remus, taking his words into full consideration again, was too much for Wesley. "Father, your first is a wizard, a fully-trained wizard." He winced as the tie tightened on him but he went on, speaking rapidly: "Why not send him along with the wizards because he should know both the will of the only pack, your pack, as well as take part with the wizards?" 

Fenrir shook his head to stop them both, really thinking. If Aaron's pack fell, at least two others would surrender right away. Murdering the werewolves he was meant to save, that was ridiculous. "Remus, you're my heir. You need to show the power you've inherited. Would you lead the wizards at Alecto's side?"

Remus would have liked very much to retch. Unfortunately, it was not an option. God, he needed to get out of there. He wracked his brain for an answer that he could give. Lead a pack of Death Eaters (no pun intended, he reflected dryly)... he could no sooner produce a rabbit out of his front pocket by simply waving his hand. The wolf pushed against him, wanting to do its Father's will, but Remus would not give in. Between those opposing forces, he remained silent.

Wesley looked at Remus as the silence stretched between them, and cut off Fenrir's impatient huff with a statement sent directly at the first of the pack. "Go and fight. Fenrir leads. If you're meant to lead us when Fenrir is gone, you have to lead."

"Watch your words, Wesley," Fenrir said, only mildly warning. "Are you going to challenge my first?"

"I... mean to help, Father, nothing else. War eases transformation, it comforts the wolf, it's our natural state, as you've shown us."

That pleased Fenrir as well, but Wesley's potential was obvious, well-known, but useless. Remus was his heir, and had to be groomed. "Maybe you'll say what you mean when your Father's not looming over your shoulder," he said, the bite in his tone accompanied with a lash of the blood tie to both his sons. He stood. "Wesley, say what you will, Remus, punish him if you see fit." With that, he left.

The wolf sulked, a sensation that Remus was getting used to. It was like he had stood too quickly, but the head rush lasted much longer, leaving him dizzy. It hated being a disappointment, subject to the ideals of the man, but there were some things Remus could simply not do. He didn't feel as though he had anything to say, nothing that Wesley would wrap his mind around, not even the simplest _I can't._ So he remained quiet.

Wesley watched Remus in hopes that he would say something first, that Wesley wouldn't be held responsible for beginning this potentially dangerous conversation, but it didn't look likely. He began slowly. "I obey pack law. I defer to my Father and his vision of pack. He sees you in that vision, and I will defer to you if I must for the sake of the pack." Tension, irritation began to brim at the surface, his wolf fully tensed as he spoke. "But you're no werewolf. You're a wizard. You must embrace your wolf before you can expect or deserve to lead others, or you're just another wizarding master."

He knew that it was supposed to be an insult, but it didn't bother Remus that Wesley still thought of him as a wizard -- and he was. He also knew that there would be a day when he could no longer sidestep what they thought he was here for, but what had he been looking for, anyway? An escape? There was no escape here, only more war. "I know you're not going to understand this, but I didn't come here looking for this," he said.

As expected, Wesley was confused. "You didn't come here to do what?" he asked, with a growing irritation. "To lead? To be a werewolf? You returned home. You came to your pack. This is what we do. If you're too weak to deal with it, then go back to the wizards!"

Wesley was right, of course. No matter how precarious his position among wizards would always be, it was what he knew. But to where? That was the prospect that always tied his stomach in knots. He clumsily clasped onto the tenuous tie that existed between them and... well, it didn't seem like a pull. He'd never quite gotten the hang of it, but all Wesley needed to understand was that he didn't really care to discuss it any further.

The simple touch was enough to make Wesley snarl. He couldn't touch him, couldn't kill him without facing Fenrir's full wrath, but the temptation was too strong. "If you don't want power, don't use it," he hissed, face contorted in anger and wolf staring directly at its brother. "Don't you DARE use pack when you refuse to be part of it!" 

There was a part of Remus that made him glad that he'd ticked off Wesley enough to elicit such a response, the most violent one he could give. It was a very small part, but the wolf grabbed onto and held it fast. He forced it to let it go, because if he didn't, it wouldn't end well. "Maybe not," he said idly.

Fear flashed cold through him for an instant, the wolf cowed by fear of punishment by a higher rank, but Wesley just stared silently at Remus until he could bring himself to speak. "Our Father is the saviour of the werewolves," he said. "If you care about your kind at all, you'll help us."

Remus didn’t chortle at Wesley’s choice of words, although he felt like he could have. Pack was already comparable to a religious order, and it was the wizard – the rational – that recognised that, making his word choice scarily apropos. It wasn’t a fair statement at all, suggesting that he did not care at all, but there were certain things… again, something that wouldn’t be understood. “I won’t speak of it anymore,” he said pointedly.

"I ask as a member of a pack that will one day be yours, Remus," Wesley started with a wary look of deference, head even lowered. "I ... hope that you'll be pack leader one day. I hope you don't die in our fights. I would be glad to have you as a pack leader and to help you in leading. Just trust in pack; unlike wizards, it'll never fail you." His wolf reached out in the gesture of fraternity as Wesley withdrew towards the door.

Remus did his best to hide the sharp breath that he involuntarily took when the wolf demanded that it be allowed to touch back and didn't wait for permission. He got a firm hold on it before it could be taken as any affirmation of anything Wesley had just said. It felt wrong, all wrong. He let Wesley go and waited for a very long moment before leaving the room himself. He needed some air.

~*~

Conor was gone again, and Briony was never sure about whether that meant she needed to be more or less vigilant than she usually was, although it usually ended up being more, complete with her back to the wall as often as she could manage it. It was just easier that way.

Relaxing seemed impossible, but she needed to do so. Transformations within the unified pack had proven to be troublesome and most unforgiving rather than easier due to her constant state of agitation. She sat herself beside Melinda in the main room, who was sitting with Skylar and Gemma, the girl who seemed to rarely leave her side, although unsurprisingly half-asleep given the late hour. Briony caught sight of the hex scars on Melinda's arms. "Those are healing well," she remarked.

Melinda had found Skylar and the rest of those from Skoll's pack to be good company, and so was startled out of a hushed conversation with Skylar when -- of all people -- the first of her pack stepped in. She glanced down out of respect, and ended up looking at her hex scars as well. "They are," she said, and at realising that this wasn't enough, went on, "I had some help."

"Perfectly respectable. Makes people think twice about bothering you," Skylar told her reassuringly. Skylar hadn't made it away from the Den without some brand new scars of her own, hidden beneath her shirt and stretching from shoulder to shoulder.

"Well. Some people," Briony added a little darkly.

" _His_ pack seems to collect them. As though you're supposed to be proud of war." Melinda spoke rapidly and softly so she might not be heard, but it was difficult not to get entirely frustrated and just scream, as she could clearly remember Geoff calling the Greyback pack 'a lot of backward masochistic savages' only a day before he'd died. How right he was.

"Believe me, they had more than a good base to build from," Briony remarked in return. 

"Speaking of our esteemed second of the pack, I'm sure," Skylar said dryly.

"Wesley won't play 'Sploding Snap," Gemma murmured tiredly, shifting in Skylar's lap. "It's all run 'round outside and play fight and _boring._ "

"Amongst his worse qualities," she agreed in return, brushing the girl's hair back.

"I don't imagine there's enough bloodshed involved for him," Briony put in.

Melinda tensed and her wolf reacted, agitated; she closed her eyes. "It won't impress Fenrir. Stupid boy. He's always going to be the second."

"It must impress him enough, Fenrir doesn't seem to be one who suffers anything for long," Skylar remarked. 

"Nothing except Death Eaters, anyway," Briony answered, immediately picking up on the shift in Melinda's wolf and tried to temper it with a brief touch.

"She's a horrible woman," Melinda said darkly, her wolf obediently calming despite that she was still agitated.

“They're all awful," Briony agreed. She had yet to find a single good thing to say about any of the witches and wizards who'd involved themselves in the matters of the packs -- especially Alecto Carrow. There was no love lost between the two of them, and that had only intensified since her pack’s fall and collapse into the Unified Pack. "But she is the worst." 

"Jeremy said we had to watch her," Gemma said, tiredly playing with her hair, before looking at Briony and Melinda, now at least awake. "I don't like her either. She was mean about Cort," she clarified.

Briony didn't answer the girl, only staring at her in slightly stunned silence for a moment. " _Jeremy said?_ " she simply directed at Skylar. She might've known, no, should have expected that she wasn't going to be the only one that he'd been talking to or using for information, but who besides her?

Melinda touched Briony's arm, too pleased at the mention of Jeremy to adhere to her strict respect to rank. "Do you know him?" she asked, lowering her voice. "You really have to talk to him, Briony. He's -- something else."

And Melinda too. Oh, this was too good. "We've talked," she said. "Sounds like he's been making rounds."

"You sound surprised," Skylar said, reconsidering letting Gemma listen whenever she and Jeremy talked.

"I... am not, actually." Briony shook her head.

"I heard he was planning on getting rid of Wesley," Melinda whispered.

Briony chortled at the thought. "I suppose there would be harder things to do." She twisted one of her curls around her finger absently. "I'm a little hard pressed to think of one right now, but..."

"Unseating Wesley would be hard," Skylar agreed. "But not totally impossible."

It'd be easier if Fenrir's first weren't practically a wizard himself, Briony thought. Nothing against Remus, really, their interaction had been limited at most, but she had no doubt that he was hardly suited to the tasks that Fenrir would have him do. Fenrir needed Wesley for sheer force. "I don't think it's his plan. Not at this point, anyway."

"I wonder what he does have planned," Melinda said, leaning forward, chin in her hands. "I hope it's soon. Do any of you know anything?"

Briony gave her a sharp look. "Stay out of it, Melinda," she said. "It doesn't do any good to try and save the pack if there isn't going to be any pack left."

Melinda reacted as though slapped, blood rushing to her face, and her head immediately lowered. "You know Geoff would have done this," she dared to say. "You know this is what he would have wanted."

She gave an immediate reaction, a low snarl that made Gemma's hold on Skylar tighten as Skylar herself paid more careful attention to Briony and Melinda. "Bri," she said slowly.

"More lives than necessary being risked? Yeah, I can see that being his desire for being in our personal hell," she snapped, ignoring Skylar.

"I think I know more about what Geoff thought than you did," Melinda shot back, her wolf agitating and panicking at the lack of obedience, but she forced it down, standing. "He was the real heir but he couldn't do or say anything around you or Jane or even his Father because he would never do or say the right thing because he wasn't you! Geoff wouldn't have let us fall like this. Geoff wouldn't have let us down!"

Now it was Briony's turn to react as though she'd been smacked. Pieces of her reacted one at a time, many of them saying, _She's right, it would be different if Geoff was alive._ Different, maybe, but not necessarily better. "We had understanding, the four of us, and Conor has never been less than fair with _all_ of us. But now Geoff's dead, isn't he," she said flatly without moving from her spot on the floor. Her eyes remained fixed on Melinda's, her wolf matching the other girl's.

"As though you care," Melinda spat down at her, her wolf panicking and forcing her back a few steps, though she didn't stop yelling. "It's always just been you and Conor and that's all it ever will be, isn't it!"

Briony knew she shouldn't have, but she jumped to her feet and advanced on Melinda. She didn't intend on touching her, but she was far too angry to just sit anymore. "How _dare_ you, Geoff was my brother, I knew him long before he even laid eyes on you let alone was sharing his bed with you -- "

"That is _enough,_ " Skylar quickly stepped between the two of them, conjuring enough menace that Briony stopped. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Drawing any more attention to yourselves than necessary would be unwise, don't you think?"

Melinda stared at Briony, her wolf struggling to the point that she felt pain and tears stung her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, lowered her head once more, and awaited some sort of order.

There was no immediate answer from Briony. Her chest was tight with grief and she wished she could trust herself to say the right thing but she wasn't sure that she did. Not that whatever she said to Melinda right now would be the right thing. "Watch yourself," she said slowly. "Stay out of it."

It was exactly what Melinda didn't want to hear, but she wasn't in the place to question it. "Is that an order?"

She could see Skylar giving her a sharp look, and feel her wolf pushing against hers. Her skin crawled. "Yes."

That was that and Melinda could feel everyone looking at her. "All right," she said, and left the room before she humiliated herself further.

The room settled back again as the show was over and everyone else went back to what they had been doing. Briony stayed frozen, and was compelled to move only when she felt Skylar seeking her out again. She turned her head and collapsed back onto the floor where she had been sitting. She clenched her fists to keep her hands from shaking, but it didn't seem to help. Skylar wasn't about to let it go. "If he's spoken to her," she started in a low tone to not be overheard, "then he's seen a way for her to help."

"If this fails I want someone to be left to take my place when Fenrir lets Wesley take me apart piece by piece," she responded numbly. She was trying to protect Melinda, as far as she could tell it was the least Geoffrey would have done for her.

"We aren't accounting for failure, Briony," she said seriously. 

"I know." She did know. She'd known it since the first time Jeremy had spoken to her, and every time since. If this didn't work now, it was not going to work. "I'm sorry."

"I don't think it's me that you have to apologise to."

Melinda wasn't going to listen to her. First or not, anything she said now was going to go in one ear and out the other. But if Briony was completely honest with herself, she knew that what Skylar said was true. She nodded and left the room again, but not to find Melinda. So much for the possibility of relaxation.

~*~

_June 1980_  
Frank and Alice had been looking and even trying to create opportunities to speak to Remus about whatever he knew about Greyback’s pack. Admittedly, recent attempts had degenerated into what could loosely be termed ‘cornering.’ At this point, though, all Frank cared about was that the plan would _work,_ and everyone could walk away feeling good about themselves. The one cinch in the plan was that Remus was not cooperating.

As a pair of Aurors they could have been subtler, but among friends – nay, comrades – there shouldn’t have been any need for such a thing. He had even rather liked Remus when they’d met, even once he’d found out about his condition, but this was quickly proceeding to the point of all bets being off. 

Dumbledore prepared to officially end the Order meeting, Marlene McKinnon dutifully scribbling every last word spoken in some kind of long dead language – the Department of Mysteries turned out to be good for something after all, Frank thought wryly. He glanced at Alice with one look that conveyed his silent question. _Ready to try again?_

Alice answered with a simple nod and touched her husband's arm as she waited for Dumbledore to speak the closing words of the meeting. As he spoke loudly above the murmurs ("That should be all for tonight, excellent work, all of you") she boldly stepped forward before Frank even moved, approaching Remus where he had placed himself far from the Longbottoms. Subtlety was no longer an option, after all. "Remus," she greeted him kindly, clasping her hands and trying her best to look friendly.

Remus desperately wished that he could Disapparate from the spot, but there was no way that was happening with the kind of wards that were up on this house. And there was no physical way out of this either – Alice was right in front of him and Frank was blocking the other angle. He forced himself to smile pleasantly at them. “Hello Alice, Frank,” he said to them.

Alice paused for only an instant to find something to say. All small talk would be lies or questions she knew he couldn't answer. She chose a lie to start off. "You look well," she said (he did, at least compared to his appearance at the last Order meeting). "You're not busy, are you, on your way out? We'd just like to talk to you for a minute, that's all." 

“‘Well’? You must be using a different dictionary than I am,” he joked weakly and knew it wasn’t going to work. “I was just…” he motioned vaguely.

“Good, then we’re going to speak with you,” Frank said, very much straight to the point and in his Auror mode while Alice went into hers – apparently very good cop/bad cop of them, as one of the Muggleborn Aurors joked. “We just want some answers, Remus, that’s all. You don’t have anything to be afraid of.”

Remus had a lot of be afraid of, but what frightened him more was the fear that could conquer him and lead him places he really couldn’t go. “I’ve already told you what I can.” The wolf was pushing against him in warning, and he ignored it.

"Surely you know more than that," Alice said, consoling with her tone and her hand on his arm. "I don't need to tell you just how important this is."

"Just one answer, Remus, that's all," Frank added, watching the younger man fight against what he recognised as something like inner trouble of some sort as a panicked look crept across his face.

"Listen," Remus said shakily, quite literally backing into the wall away from Alice's touch. That small effort to calm the wolf seemed to go unappreciated, and he felt truly trapped. His heart was speeding up in a futile preparation to flee, and he forced himself to breathe slower than he would have liked to. "I am there, so I will do... _whatever_ \-- " He _was_ doing whatever, forget that. "But I can't give you a location. I know it sounds awful but I really can't. You have to trust me."

It was the first moment where Frank honestly didn’t trust Remus. "Can't or won't," he said flatly.

Remus gave him a sharper look than he would have meant to otherwise, but the wolf was up front and ready to be seen. "Can't," he answered in a similar tone.

Alice Longbottom was nothing if not one of the most patient witches in Britain, but her patience had been tried one time too many for her taste. "Why not?" Her voice rose in pitch, and after a self-conscious look around the room, she saw Caradoc and Benjy watching her. She turned her steely gaze on Remus again and put her hands on her hips. "I'm waiting."

'Because it won't let me' was a madman's answer, and he knew it. It wasn't an answer he could give. He wracked his brain again for anything he could say -- why not the truth? There would be a price to pay for the wolf's displeasure, but it would be over eventually. Fenrir Greyback would be gone for good. The cost was low, comparatively speaking.

He opened his mouth to assent, the words were even ready to leave his mouth, but instead of any words, he cried out in the sudden, searing pain in his head -- a blinding pain, like the worst migraine. He leaned heavily against the wall as his legs gave way. He put his hands to his head with no real hope that any of the pain was going to be relieved.

Alice didn't hesitate to hurry over to Remus and begin doing the best once-over with the little knowledge of Healing she had. "What's wrong? Frank, go get Edgar! Is Edgar still here?"

Frank backed away quickly and went to obey Alice's order. Remus tried to tell her that it wouldn't help, but instead he gritted his teeth and sank to the floor as a fresh jolt of pain hit. The pain hit again and again, in unbearable waves.

Frank returned with Edgar Bones in tow, who immediately assessed the situation with the practised eyes of a Healer. "Remus, what's wrong?" he asked calmly, and when he received no answer from him, he looked to Alice.

Alice didn't know what was going on. Certainly she was the only werewolf expert in the room besides Remus himself, but was this even werewolf-related? Was he ill? She panicked. "We were just talking to him and he -- " she gestured, flustered. "He started to panic like this!"

"We were interrogating him, more like," Frank admitted.

Right, so no help there. Edgar turned back to Remus. "Can I examine you, Remus?" he asked the younger man, who was now at least not holding his head in his hands. He took his silence for assent, and at least made sure he wasn't going to die right there on the floor. "Your heart rate is through the roof."

"Pain's in my head," he answered dully. It hadn't completely subsided, but it still felt like his head might explode -- in addition to the momentary satisfaction of the wolf, which added its own kind of misery.

Alice withdrew towards Frank, miserably pressing her face into his shoulder. Despite the possibility that Remus was a traitor, she never would use such measures to draw out information, unlike many of the Aurors with their newfound powers of the Unforgivables.

Edgar sighed and continued to give Remus a basic check up. Creature-induced injuries were not his area of specialty, but he was willing to bet Remus's condition was either the cause or an impacting factor of whatever was going on. "Well, I don't know if there's anything I can do," he said. "Can you stand, then?"

Even if he couldn't he was going to, because he needed to leave. He took Edgar's extended hands and pulled himself to stand solidly on his own two feet. His head throbbed. "Yes, I think I'm better now, thank you," he said with a calm that he didn't think he was going to be capable of.

"All right," Edgar nodded. "If this turns out to not be... environmental," he started tactfully, looking over his shoulder at Frank and Alice, "and happens again, please promise me that you'll send me a Patronus."

Remus was fairly sure that it was very nearly entirely environmental, so no harm in saying, "I will, thank you." He felt guilty about it even though he also felt that he really shouldn't, but he took that opportunity to go out the door and Disapparate as soon as he got far enough away. The wolf had gotten its way, and it had only cost any sort of dignity or standing he had left in the Order.


	15. Escape Route

_The Den was much simpler in concept than in practice. It was all a matter of providing help to those who would seek it, for those who were not getting it from anywhere else. It became a life's work._ Owen Curenton, _Pack: The Sociology of the Werewolf Pack,_ 1st edition, 1976.

_June 1980_

Of all packs to study, Fenrir's pack was the most difficult and the most intensely rhetorically charged one of them all. Jeremy Curenton had a thousand and one reasons to study the Greyback pack... vengeance being the foremost, naturally, but Fenrir made everything that was most essentially pack come to its fullest, most extreme potential under his leadership, and that was worth a good look. 

Jeremy's biggest question remained unanswered so long now that he began to wonder if he was asking the wrong question. _Who was Fenrir's heir?_ He certainly knew Fenrir's first victim by now; the girl, Laurel, watched his every move in the house and made her presence abundantly known to him. No matter what she did, it didn't matter. Even if she was male and could inherit, she was still unnamed. She wasn't the heir. 

That scary son of a bitch Wesley wasn't the heir. For all of the hero worship of Fenrir, the wholesale adoption of his Father's teachings, it was common knowledge that the greatest fighter of the Pack was definitely not Fenrir's heir. 

So who was? 

With the exception of the full moon, the upper floor was barred to unnameds except for Laurel. Forbidden naturally meant something to hide, and Jeremy could not help but break rules like "Do Not Enter," so the resulting situation was inevitable. He went upstairs. 

It wasn't so difficult. The Greyback pack relied on strict obedience and fear of punishment to keep people in line, and never seemed to consider that someone would disobey and wander upstairs. He opened the first door he found, knowing none of the high-ranking pack that he knew of would be around; he'd already seen them downstairs. Whatever secrets they were hiding, Jeremy would find them and then run like hell. 

To his disappointment, it was just a bedroom with a mattress and a blanket. Jeremy sighed and closed the door behind himself, lighting his wand and looking for some sort of indication of whose room it could be (maybe Alecto's, but he doubted it). He knelt and looked at the head of the mattress to see if there were any hairs, any tell-tale signs of who slept here, but that too gave nothing away. 

There were footsteps up the stairs. Jeremy leapt to his feet, immediately ducked into the closet in the corner, and shut the door. The door opened and he pressed himself to the wall as though in hopes of vanishing through it. 

The closet door slammed open and he stared in surprise that someone would check there that quickly. Laurel stared back at him, her gaze and hands cold as she hauled him out. "I heard you," she hissed. "I heard you coming up here. Carrow was right, you're a sneak and a risk, and all I have to do is -- " 

Letting her get momentum would be letting her get the upper hand. "Do they even listen to you?" he interrupted. 

She slapped him across the face. "How _dare_ you question me? I am Fenrir's most loyal wolf -- "

It hurt, but he took a quick breath. "But you don't rank. At all. You only rank because you fuck him. You're not even his real first." 

Laurel shoved him against the wall, hard, the front of his robes fisted in her hand. "His first is a useless wizard," she snarled, and to his surprise, there were tears choking her growl. 

A wizard. A _wizard?_ Another one? Even in his shock he wasn't stupid enough to show that he'd picked up on it. "Let me go. I didn't see anything," he said with his best faked look of fear. 

"And you won't." Laurel left the room, her shoulders shaking once in a sob before straightening in complete stoicism. 

Remus jumped out of Laurel's way in the hallway. Normally, such behaviour received him odd looks -- he was the heir to this empire Fenrir was building with bloodshed and fear, why should he do any such thing? -- but she passed by him this time, seeming completely heedless that he was even there. Puzzled but not completely ungrateful at being ignored this time, he curiously looked around the corner from where she had come, in his room. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but he hadn't been expecting to see Jeremy Curenton standing there. "You shouldn't be up here," he said, a little bit stupidly, but what else was there to say? 

Jeremy prided himself on being very rarely surprised, since almost everything in the world was self-evident if you recognised the details and did the maths. But this was something he could never predicted in his life. 

Maybe he was imagining things. Yes, he was years removed from Hogwarts, he had already forgotten the names and details of many of his classmates. But the odds that it just so happened that a wizard was Fenrir's first, and a wizard named _Remus_ \-- named _Remus,_ how could he not have figured this out earlier? -- showed up right here right now were very, very low.

"Remus Lupin," he said, nothing less than completely dazed. "Remus -- that's what he named you, isn't it?" He raked his hand through his hair, caught his breath. "I have to say you were the last person I expected." 

"Considering the sort of trouble that went into getting me to the school, I suppose I should consider that a good thing," he said dryly. "But you got it in one." 

Jeremy had to close his eyes and focus on his breathing to slow the rush of thoughts. "You're his first. You're Fenrir's heir." He held off the anger at the werewolf who _had_ N.E.W.T.s and didn't use them for the sake of his own kind, at the werewolf who was _allowed_ to go on in school when Jeremy was simply expelled. It wouldn't be productive. He had plans and they were necessary. "Are you a Death Eater?" he asked of Remus casually. 

There was no way of knowing how this conversation was going to progress or end, so Remus stepped into the room and perhaps against his better judgment, locked the door and did his best to soundproof it. "Considering what is going on in this house, I suppose you have been given every reason to think that I am, but I am not." The idea made him nearly ill; for all the good he was being to the Order, he may as well have been. 

This was beyond surreal. "Then why are you here?" Jeremy demanded, his voice louder than he'd usually dare; he forced the volume down as he went on. "Why would you come to _this?_ You had everything, you probably had some fucking posh job and friends and family and no one _knew_ about you, why would you come here?" 

Remus was flushing red, could practically feel the heat emanating from his face, and the wolf was becoming surly, again. It disliked being yelled at, and to take it from an unnamed with no pack tie was just humiliating. "Please don't assume that you know -- " he started flatly, and cut himself off. "I worked in a bookshop in Cardiff until I was fired and the owner thought he was being incredibly generous because he did it quietly. I have a father who lied to me, a mother who knew as much as I did, and friends are not something I'm particularly rich in at the moment." 

It was only at that point that he realised he wasn't in control at all and that the wolf had gained the upper hand without him even noticing. He didn't have time for this. "I'm not about to pity you," Jeremy spat. "So don't even try. I have no tie here, no name, all I have is that I'm going to destroy Fenrir. Are you going to help me?" 

For a minute Remus was completely dumbfounded that even such a thing might be possible. He'd wracked his brain, in as much as it could stand to be wracked after being constantly attacked with all of the wolf's stimulus and demands and being overwrought. _Don't even think it. That's your Father._ He ignored it. "Can you even..." He let the hopeless question hang unfinished in the air between them. 

Controlling himself calmed the wolf and only then could Jeremy comfortably breathe. He would never understand how some werewolves managed to live with the wolf stifling them like that. "I can and I will," he said. "Or are you too busy cosying up with Death Eaters and the butcher Wesley? And you said you didn't have any friends." 

Remus chortled. Not because of anything he'd said, none of which was particularly funny, but something about Jeremy that put him in mind of James and Sirius. The single-mindedness, the sheer stubbornness of it all. Given their attitudes at that Order meeting so long ago when he himself had planted the seeds of mistrust, he suspected that _they_ would have been on board faster than you could say 'I'm in.' "Failure is not an option, I take it," he said quietly, ignoring the wolf’s demands to be heard, fearful and tormented by its human's actions. 

Avoidant bugger, wasn't he. Well, Jeremy would get him to talk. This was his in to the upper ranks, if he could trust his gut on this. "To take failure into consideration, to make it even part of your mindset, will guarantee that you'll fail. So are you with him or aren't you? This is a yes or no question." 

Of course failure wasn't an option, why had he even asked. There was no other reply to give now. "Of course I'm not," he said. Nobody in their right mind could possibly be, but then again, there were days when Remus seriously considered whether he _was_ in his right mind. He crossed his arms across his chest and eyed Jeremy. "What are you planning?" If he wasn't going to be of direct use to the Order, he could at least do something indirectly. 

Jeremy took a seat on the floor and withdrew both his wand and a scrap of parchment; when he tapped the parchment, it transfigured back into the scroll that was now so incredibly vital to him and his plans. He rolled it out and glanced back at Remus. "Fenrir has a plan. That much is obvious. He wants to unify all packs under him. I think I've figured out his plan, and it's all tied into the lines of patriarchy." He traced with his finger the lines that were now remarkably more fleshed out than before he'd entered the pack. "I have my allies in the pack already. I know some of what happens on this floor, but my knowledge is limited. If you tell me what you know, and continue to, I can speed up the process of ending this." 

Remus knelt to read some of the parchment, scanning it and letting the names permeate his brain. He recognised many, but many more eluded him. "You've been busy," he remarked, not out of avoidance but truly impressed. He sat back on his heels. "I'll tell you what I know, fill in what blanks I can." His fingernails dug into the palm of his hand, distracting himself physically from the frenzy that the wolf wanted to break into but he would not allow. 

Jeremy caught the attempt at distraction and then a flash of the wolf in Remus's eyes. This was going to be difficult. _Pack,_ of course. "I need to know the weaknesses," he said, not pressing Remus nearly as hard this time. "I need to know what to exploit. And then I can tell _you_ what to exploit when you're in with them. Who disagrees, who argues what points, is there any argument at all or is it generally what Fenrir says goes?" This was a _dream._ It could have been someone like Wesley, it could've been someone like Laurel or even someone like Alecto, but instead it was a natural ally. _Excellent._ Bits of a plan began to coalesce in his head before Remus even said a word and he flipped the parchment over, taking notes in a tight, condensed handwriting. 

"Wesley's always looking for a fight," Remus put in dryly, "but I suspect that won't surprise you at all. Fenrir always sends Conor first before anything on the off chance that anyone's going to lay down and surrender. Alecto and Laurel argue and if they're not arguing they have to make sure that the barely restrained contempt is completely clear. Alecto's brother Amycus brings other Death Eaters as they are needed against the packs, leaving the attacked pack no chance, but since you came with Skoll's people I suppose you know that much." And he did his best to stay out of it as much as possible. He rested a chin on his knee. "I'm not sure what you know," he finally said. 

He'd concluded some of those points but it was always good to have affirmation, and he absorbed those, scribbling down more of the details. It wasn't much, what Remus had told him, but it was enough that Jeremy felt he could trust him. "I know about the lower levels. I know who's unhappy with their situations, I know who's willing to do something about fixing their situations. I know that Fenrir's trying to go after packs in descending order of the patriarchy." He flipped the parchment over to reveal the family tree again. "They're going after Aaron tonight," he said, pointing at the Irish branches, "and they'll hit Caleb right after." His finger slid down the family tree to the information on Caleb's pack. 

"Next I think they'll go after Hati who's loosely connected, which should be a challenge. She has wands to protect her, and she'll know about the unified pack rising. She'll be prepared." Jeremy shook his head. "But you're asking what I know, not what I guess. What I know is the packs, relation, and I know that there's one way to take Fenrir's feet out from under him. Take away his unnameds." 

"Her name was thrown around," Remus said idly as he absorbed Jeremy's words. Without the unnameds... the pack would be decimated, although in a very different sense. Their lack of status left them powerless in pack affairs and adrift in the tempestuous environment, but there were more of them than there were nameds. So many more. "It would be... _god,_ " he breathed, his mind wrapping around it. 

"And there's nothing stopping it," Jeremy said with a faint smile. "No blood tie. There's no way we can be controlled. The only thing controlling us or keeping us here at the very least is fear and brainwashed obedience. They can be broken of that." He leaned back, stretched his legs out. "What I need from you is to keep Fenrir's eye off of anything that might be going on internally. Keep their eyes on the war itself. You're the heir; they'll listen to you. Hell, take control of watching the Pack -- they'll think you're taking a leadership role, and it'll throw suspicion off of both you and me." 

Remus was not sure that undoing something that could certainly be termed 'brainwashing' would be quite that easy but now, all things were possible. He simply nodded at that, he would try, and he could succeed. With a direction that he could justify to himself, maybe things could at least start working better. "This will work," he said, unsure of whether he was merely commenting or trying to convince himself. 

Jeremy grabbed at his shoulder and gave it a fraternal sort of squeeze. "Yeah. It'll work. You're keeping us safe," he emphasized. "This is very important, mate, we need you. So just... do your thing, talk to Fenrir or whatever, tell him you want to take over internal pack shite. He'll love that, I wager." He rolled up his parchment, retransfigured it, and pocketed it. "Oh, and two days from now, tell ... tell Carrow that I spoke against Fenrir to the unnameds. Something minor, but you're concerned." 

Remus wondered if he should even bother to ask why, since they both knew perfectly well how that would end, but decided that it didn't really matter. "I will," he said, and added dryly, "Brace yourself, what comes out of that will not be pleasant in the least." 

Jeremy shrugged and pushed himself to his feet. "Whatever he does, it can't be the worst thing that can happen, right? No point in killing an unnamed just because they said something stupid, that's typical behaviour." He returned his wand to his pocket, and sauntered to the door. 

Just as he put his hand on the doorknob, there was a resounding set of knocks that sent him withdrawing three steps back. "Remus," Wesley said from the other side of the door, as reasonably as anything. "We need you downstairs." 

Of course, if they were discovered, there might be no reason for Remus to say anything two days from now. He indicated to Jeremy to move aside, behind where the door would open, hopefully keeping him out of sight. No time like the present to start this business. He steeled himself to open the door and for whatever would come after he did and went down those stairs. "I'm coming," he called back, waiting to see what Wesley would do in response. 

Jeremy withdrew towards the closet again, eyes on the door with every step backward. Several long seconds passed with no response from Wesley, but he finally spoke. "It's important. Fenrir wants you downstairs," he said, unspoken suspicion undoubtedly tingeing his voice. 

Remus exchanged a significant glance with Jeremy. He couldn't believe that he would be dense enough to not wait before returning downstairs, but then again, this was the man who was determined to take Fenrir down. He fed the wolf his ever growing nerves as he'd found he could do, and opened the door, coming face to face with Wesley. "All right," he replied. 

As ever Wesley didn't question him, but gave a short nod and returned downstairs to report to Fenrir. Once Jeremy was absolutely certain that Wesley was gone, he managed to breathe. "Thank you," he said. Remus was either an amazing actor or likely the only person he could fully trust in this whole bloody building. "Go on." 

Remus nodded, not wanting to stick around too much longer. "Just stay for a bit. Downstairs'll be too tied up to notice anyone coming down," he said, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. The anxiety he'd let the wolf handle was being given back to him, dulled as if a memory, and he was put back on edge. Before he could give himself a chance to reconsider what he'd agreed to and what that meant doing, he plunged down the stairs.

~*~

_July 1980_

Alice's last day at work before entering forced maternity leave was the fifteenth of July, and she was not happy about it. The sixteenth was a miserable day spent mostly lying on the sofa with parchment doing as much work as she could at home with only her memory to serve her. By the seventeenth, she had no choice but to really do something. She might have been an expecting mother, but she was also an Auror, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and neither was inclined to lie around on bed rest. One worry, at least, could be solved without Ministry resources, and she had every intention of doing what she could.

She knocked on the door of the Potter house in Godric's Hollow, shifting on her sore feet and hoping -- for once -- that James or even Sirius was around to answer the door and spare Lily the trouble of standing. 

Lily would have liked that too, but of course they weren't. She settled on the couch in the sitting room with the newspaper, looking for something that was worth her time reading when she heard the knock on the door. She sighed a little and spoke to her stomach, "Okay, baby, get ready to move." The baby moved, and she felt sure it was a reaction to her voice. "No fair, you moved first," she added, and with effort that would have wiped out a lesser woman, sat up and stood, making her way to the door.

She looked through the peephole in the front door, and saw Alice. All the same, she took out her wand and asked, "Password?" There had been some very close calls, and she and James were not taking any chances. 

"Some are dead and some are living," Alice said in a bit of a weary sing-song, repeating the lyric of the song she had only heard once, when Emmeline had brought her record player over to the Longbottom house. She peered through the window. "I'm sorry to make you get up." 

"It's all right, no trouble," Lily said, grimacing as the heat from outside hit her through the open door. She looked at her friend, and grinned wryly. "Still not a mummy?" 

" _Still._ " Alice grinned back and lumbered inside, feeling at least slightly less like a whale at the sight of Lily. "I love my little boy, I do, I only wish he'd hurry along. How are you then?" 

"Practising for when this one is a teenager with James and Sirius," Lily joked back, shutting the door behind Alice. "Would you like some tea? I don't think it's warm enough outside to merit foregoing tea, but..." 

Alice didn't hesitate to continue towards the kitchen, because at her size, once you gained momentum, you didn't waste it. "I would love a cuppa, summer, winter or spring," she said with a smile. 

"Excellent!" she said, following her along to the kitchen. "Go ahead and have a seat -- you know what, I'm just going to do the same. At this point, I don't stand unless I have to." As she said, she took a seat at the kitchen table and began Summoning, filling, and arranging things for tea with her wand. 

"Neither do I," Alice laughed, sitting and resting her hands on her stomach. "Well... I move more than I should, if you ask Frank or my mediwitch, but I don't know how they expect me to sit still." She appraised Lily, and did her best to look thoughtful, not worried. 

"I know, I love being able to rest and everything but -- oh, James can be absolutely ridiculous you know, like the littlest thing is going to send me into labour. Although at this point, that might be a blessing," she said as the mugs of hot water, canister of tea leaves, and sugar bowl landed neatly in the middle of the table. 

"If we've not gone into labour over any number of the big stressors in the world, I don't think a bit of spilt cream or a few minutes of political conversation are going to make my water break," Alice said, biding her time and calmly beginning to make her tea. 

"You realize if it does, I will have to laugh at you... basically for the rest of your natural life," Lily grinned. 

Alice grinned for a moment but then looked thoughtful. "Oh, this might need testing. I'll debate the Statute of Secrecy with Frank later." 

Lily laughed. "Oh, pity I won't be there to see it. How is dear old dad to be?" 

"Oh, he's holding up quite well, if a bit more of a nervous wreck each day he finds his pregnant wife ordered to be on bed rest neither resting nor in bed. Men," she concluded, and sipped her tea. "But he's Frank. He'll always fuss." 

She considered it, and then nodded. "True. If he didn't, we would worry." 

"And if James wasn't falling over himself to do what he thought was best for you," Alice added, "we would worry." 

"Well. That's also true," she agreed with an affectionate roll of her eyes. She took a long drink of her tea and let it burn its way down her throat. "Silly boy that he is, sometimes." 

"Yes, yes." She considered her cup for a moment and went on, "Last meeting was, erm, interesting, didn't you think?" 

Lily didn't answer right away, although she had the feeling that Alice wasn't talking about Mundungus and Benjy's report on who was using what means to move what through Knockurn. "It was," she said carefully. "Edgar Bones mentioned that Remus had... been ill." 

No one could ever accuse Lily Potter of being anything but the sharpest knife in the drawer, and just as dangerous. "Frank and I... we've been trying so hard to help the werewolves how little we can from our place in Law Enforcement." Alice stirred her tea absently. "He's been avoiding us. We had to talk to him." 

"Well. It's not just you he's avoided," she answered, tapping her fingers against the side of her mug. "He's been withdrawn since we left school, and it's only gotten worse since then. James and I have done everything we can, I'm afraid it's only purchased more worry." She glanced up at Alice. "Not to say that what you and Frank are trying to do isn't right, because if he knows something he should say it. I worry very much about him, is all." 

"You should," Alice said, to the point, watching Lily with both the eye of an Auror and that of a friend. "You should worry. We interrogated him and his heart rate rose to the point where he couldn't properly speak. He said he couldn't tell us. Not that he wouldn't, but that he couldn't. He's afraid of something, almost fatally so." 

To say Remus's silence didn't worry Lily would be a lie, because it did. He'd never been one to say more than totally necessary, but there was a difference between being quiet because of your personality and being quiet because something was keeping you quiet. "He's always been quiet, that's nothing new -- I mean, I knew that even before I _knew_... of course, I can't really blame him, wizards treat werewolves dreadfully. But it's been... more, lately." 

Alice sighed and looked at the table. "That's true, very true." No one had spoken aloud the suspicions that the whole Order seemed to have, not until now, if she could find the courage to say such a thing to one of Remus's best friends. _I think your friend might be a spy from the Death Eaters_ just didn't roll off of the tongue so smoothly. "Lily, may I be frank?" she began. 

"You'll have to take it up with your husband, see if he's like to be Alice," Lily replied dryly. There was a dead silence, but she hadn't expected that joke to fly well given the tone of Alice's voice. "I'm listening, Alice," she said instead. 

Alice tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth turned up for only a moment before falling again. She spoke decisively, seriously. "Do you believe it is... possible," she said, then pausing to frame the last half of her question, "that Remus might be with _them_ instead of with _us?_ " 

Had James or Sirius brought it up, Lily would have immediately said no and asked them if they were daft. But she didn't answer Alice so quickly. Alice made it sound frighteningly reasonable, because she was a frighteningly reasonable person. He was among them, the opportunity was more than present. But he was _Remus._ Still, nobody could be discounted for what they appeared to be, that much had been proven in recent years. "I -- I don't.... no, of course not," she said firmly, but there was a note of uncertainty belying her tone. 

"You know I don't want him to be. I'm not the sort who looks in every corner for villains or spies in my life, you know me, Lily." Alice knew how this sounded, and hated the idea that she was about to suggest that a werewolf was a Dark creature siding with Dark wizards. She might as well just quote from one of the Ministry's numerous smug _Daily Prophet_ articles on the topic, at this rate. This was different, though, it had to be. "But his behaviour and his supposed inability to tell us about seeing Death Eaters at work every day -- it makes me wonder." 

Lily set her jaw, and nodded. Alice was right, but she still refused to believe that Remus of all people would have even considered it, let alone done it. She sipped her tea again while she tried to sort it out in her head. "So if he literally can't speak about it and it causes him pain to even attempt to do so," she started slowly, "it might be that he's not doing it of his own free will. But they want the in so they need to control him." 

Alice could not have been more relieved at Lily's logic, which had led them further than any of their previous ideas had taken them. This did make a lot of sense. "It's not Imperius. At least, I don't believe so. Imperius is too all-encompassing, and he seems quite capable of speaking about anything besides Fenrir Greyback and the Death Eaters working with the werewolves. Perhaps it's ... " she hesitated. "Something among the werewolves, something we can't understand. Or Dark Arts. We'll have Elphias look him over at the next meeting." 

She gave a short nod. Magic was like a science in its own way; there was much they didn't know about and a lot of rules and laws that governed it. "That's soon," she nodded again. "Have you talked to Dumbledore about this?" Although if Lily knew anything about Dumbledore, he probably already had an inkling. 

Alice nodded and sipped her tea to stall. "Dumbledore said we should trust him." She looked into her tea, as her guilty look was as good as admitting how pointedly she had broken this guideline. "That until there was severe, undeniable proof, we must consider the few friends we have as friends. After all -- suspicions will only tear us apart, and we are stronger united than divided." She raised her eyes and smiled wryly. "Trust your friends more than you mistrust your enemies, simply."

"That sounds like Dumbledore," she said, considerably lighter than before. He was right, of course; if suspicions began to grow and were allowed to flourish, soon accusations would fly, and they would surely be torn apart. "We must watch him, though," she said, contemplating her tea. "Even if he is spying, he does not seem well." And it did her no good to see one of her oldest friends suffer so. 

"I know," Alice said, her voice hollow. She had if anything made things worse. She could have been more patient, dealt with him more delicately: Frank followed her lead, and she had pressed on too hard. She had to presume his innocence despite her strong instinct. "I know this is hardly the time, but it will never be a good time, Lily, I ... I trust you can handle this. You know Remus better than any of us." 

Lily just nodded, finishing her tea. If 'handle' meant 'obsess over', then yes, she was going to probably handle it the best of any of them. "I'll... get him after the meeting, see if he'll talk to me. This is being kept quiet, I presume?" The Order wasn't so large and its members so dull-witted that this wasn't going to catch on without any of them having to say a single word, but it would perhaps be best to ask Alice. 

"As it best it can," Alice echoed with a sigh. "The others have already noticed, due to the... disturbance, but we'll do our best to keep it quiet, unless it goes too far. I trust you won't let that happen, L -- " she was cut off by the bang of the front door being flung open violently, and Alice immediately raised her wand to defend against the intruder -- that was, until she heard a shout of "SURRENDER, MONSIEUR PADFOOT, YOU MISERABLE SON OF A SLYTHERIN!" 

"NOT UNTIL YOU PUT YOURS DOWN, YOU MANGY GIT," returned another voice. 

Lily sighed, partly out of relief and partly out of exasperation. "My boys are home," she said, somewhat wearily and quite needlessly. 

Alice lowered her wand and said, "If that didn't send me into labour, nothing will." 

"Well, let's hope something does," Lily said, and, with a bit of effort stood to meet them, but didn't have the chance. 

Running footsteps quickly approached the kitchen and Sirius slid in. He immediately ducked behind Lily, brandishing a water pistol like it was life or death. "Hey, how's it going?" he asked casually, as if there were absolutely nothing absurd or odd about his entrance. 

"Not in the house, I told you last -- " She stopped as a stream of water hit her in the ear. "JAMES." 

"Oh shit -- " James hid the water pistol behind his back as though that would absolve him of blame, and wiped his water-logged glasses with the sleeve of his free arm. "Hi Lily. Alice."

"Hi," Lily said flatly. "James, do you remember what we decided about the water pistols or not?"

"Ooh, Prongs in trouble -- " One Look from Lily was enough to silence Sirius, who looked at the kitchen floor and scratched behind one ear with the nozzle of his water pistol. 

James pulled a face at Sirius but stopped the instant he felt the Look, and stated judiciously, "To be fair, it was self-defence. He started it." 

"Traitor," Sirius shot back.

Lily involuntarily flinched at the word, casually thrown about. If they'd known what she and Alice had been talking about, she somehow doubted that it would be so easily uttered and thrown away. "Just take it outside, right?" she said tersely. 

James sent her a wary look and could feel the weight of Alice's glare on him as well, but dismissed it with a shrug as the result of pregnancy hormones. "Sorry," he said brightly, then turned to Sirius, squirting him once in the face before sniggering and bolting outside. 

Sirius sputtered for a moment. "Um. Ta, ladies!" he nodded to Lily and Alice before chasing after James in the direction he'd come.

In a matter of seconds, Lily heard them both in the backyard and looked out the window in time to see one of them fall over the garden wall. "I don't know what I'm going to do with them," she announced with a shake of her head. 

Alice smiled wryly. "Look at it this way," she said, setting her tea aside. "You'll be well-prepared for a small child." 

"Truer words have never been spoken," she agreed, leaving her mug in the sink before taking her seat at the kitchen table again.

~*~

At the end of the second Order meeting a few days after her tea with Alice, Lily raced after Remus as he made a beeline for the door. It wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world, two weeks away from her due date, but she did all right. His distraction over the course of the entire meeting didn’t really seem like the behaviour of a dangerous spy, but she tried to remain skeptical lest she be totally wrong about Remus. Then again, the look in his eyes when she grabbed his elbow showed her hardly anything but danger. There was alarm and something very cold underneath a look that was so purely Remus that Lily couldn’t tag it with any kind of emotion. The look was there in that instant and gone in the next, replaced by his tired but pleasant smile. “Lily.”

God, how could they think that this man, their _friend_ was spying? “Remus,” she replied, a smile immediately spreading across her lips, and she remembered why she had snagged him after the meeting in the first place. “Look, I feel terrible that we haven’t really talked -- " _since we left school,_ “in awhile. I want you to come have lunch with me this week.” 

Remus looked like he wanted to protest for a moment, his mouth opening and then closing. “I don’t know if that’s…” 

“Such a good idea? Please,” she interrupted, her mouth setting into a hard line. “You are my friend, I am inviting you to come. And I would really like you to,” she added in a softer tone. Her hands rested in their new usual place bracing her lower back while he stared back. “Don’t make me beg.” 

“Since when does Lily Potter beg for anything?” he asked back teasingly. 

“Since a friend won’t come and visit a lonely pregnant lady,” she answered. “Please.” 

He hesitated again and for a moment, Lily honestly thought that the answer was going to be no. “Friday. I’ll be there midday, if I can get away.” 

Get away. Lily wasn’t sure that they _wanted_ to know what was going on at the pack where Remus stayed. She hated to think of him there as it was, especially if he really was spying. “Okay,” she nodded, and relinquished her hold on his arm. Today was Sunday, Friday would come eventually.

“Okay,” he echoed with a faint smile. “Good night, Lily.” 

“Good night, Remus,” she waved with one hand and watched him descend the steps of the veranda and go into the damp night. 

And so Friday had come. Lily’s natural state was never nervous. In fact, being nervous made her nervous. There was really no reason to be so, because it was just Remus. Even so, nerves were an improvement over the worry that had plagued her. Her worry didn’t only annoy her, but James as well – and he didn’t want to hear any of it, but insisted that worry was not healthy for the baby. The Healer agreed, and emphasized every time she had a checkup to avoid stress. James was also unlikely to shut up as long as he knew the Healer agreed with him, and stress was going to be part of her life as long as there was the Order. 

But still. She was doing what she could, and that made her feel a little better. 

Lily chewed on a hangnail that she’d managed to give herself in the last five days as she looked out of the bay window in the front room that overlooked the yard. She tried to convince herself that she would feel better when Remus was there, but then what? What answers would she find? She wished she knew, because then she could prepare herself properly. 

Not long after noon, Lily saw a figure approaching the house from the far off Apparation point. It had to be Remus. She kept calm, until there was his knock on the door. “Hello, password?” she asked impatiently, but knew she should do so. 

“Some and dead and some are living,” Remus said, a touch darkly. The door flew open and before a hello so much as crossed either of their lips, Lily had her arms around him tightly. He was far too surprised to say anything, and far too grateful for the contact to pull back.   
He carefully raised his arms around her back, and held her there for a moment -- awkwardly, due to her nine months pregnant belly. There was such disgust from the wolf at that moment combined with a very rare fascination that he was almost doubly surprised by it. The wolf was very much aware of the baby growing inside Lily, almost to the point of hypersensitivity, and in a very arrogant, almost condescending sort of way was interested in the idea of a Remus’s reverence for this _woman_ as a lifegiver. “You look very well,” he told her quietly. 

“I’m fat, Remus, have you actually looked at me lately?” she joked, pulling back to look at Remus. She really wished that she could honestly reply in kind, but it would have been a lie and they both knew that. She could see that an effort had been made as far as looking presentable and well, as it ever was but never seemed to be enough. There was no five o’clock shadow on his jaw, and his hair was combed, but he still looked exhausted and burdened. “You need a haircut,” she settled on again, tugging on the ends that reached his collar once she was satisfied that nothing was physically wrong with him. “Very fashionable, though.” 

“It’s a child, and you both seem very healthy indeed,” he insisted, feeling more at ease than he had in months. Something else occurred to him. “You must be due very soon.” 

“First of August,” she smiled, and pulled him inside, shutting the door. “Unfortunately I’m still not much of a cook. It’s tea and sandwiches, unless you want something else to drink…” 

He hadn’t had bread in a very long time – let alone meat that had actually been cooked. The idea made the wolf queasy; feeling that separate nausea was an awkward thing. “It sounds lovely,” he said, letting her lead him back to the kitchen excitedly. 

There was a lot of strained small talk at first, but they eventually relaxed slightly. It was easily the best time that Remus had had in a long while. He forgot about those who had died because of the actions he had agreed to take in order to help Curenton, about Fenrir’s plots, and Wesley’s snarling face. More to the point, he’d forgotten about the disappointment at being unable to help the Order and lack of trust he had inspired in his friends. Even so, it all came back every time there was a lull in their conversation and Lily got that hesitant look in her eyes that showed what questions she really wanted to ask; the ones Remus was dreading. He realized that he missed – missed? Not missed. That he was now more used to a conversation where he was able to feel out the emotional state of the person by seeking their wolf. 

The looking at her hands was a real tell that she was about to say something she really didn’t want to say; she was a smart, confident woman who hardly ever looked down, even in contemplation. He decided that it would be best for him to address this first. “If you don’t ask me any questions, then I won’t have to lie,” he said, speaking lightly. 

“I don’t want you to lie,” she answered immediately, “but… Remus, please. I’m not going to ask something you can’t answer. I don’t want… I won’t ask where, I know that hasn’t worked. But why can’t you say?” 

Remus felt like laughing and crying all at once. The wolf had waited quietly, observing, but now it sensed again the same danger it felt whenever he was away from the pack. He breathed slowly, trying to control it and appease it with the thought that they wouldn’t be under that kind of scrutiny again, not in Lily’s kitchen. “There is no answer for that question that doesn’t make me sound completely mad,” he finally said. 

“You’d have a long way to go to be the most insane person I know; remember, I’m married to James,” she put in, and remembered details that she and Alice had discussed. “You said you can’t.” 

“I know it all sounds absolutely crazy, but I swear it’s the truth,” he added quickly, barely a second after she finished speaking. One foot was tapping restlessly, a mannerism that he had developed as of late. “No matter what the Longbottoms or anyone else think, trust me, it is definitely a matter of ‘cannot’ rather than ‘will not.’” 

“I believe you,” she told him, trying not to seem worried. The last thing she wanted was to provoke another spell like he had after the Order meeting, whatever had caused that. Because she would have insisted on St. Mungo’s, and wouldn’t have _they_ made an interesting pair Flooing in. “I do believe you, Remus, we just… we just want to understand why you can’t say something.” 

“That’s the crazy part,” he said in a partial deadpan. “It -- " The words _it won’t let me_ stuck in his throat. 

“Are you cursed by the… who are they, the Carrows? We know there’s at least a witch and the wizard involved. Have they Bound you somehow?” 

At that he did laugh. Of all the wolves in that pack, he was least likely to be harmed save for Fenrir. He met Lily’s confused glance. “It’s nothing like that, at least not from the Death Eaters. I suppose you could say I’m bound.” 

“ _How?_ ” she asked, becoming a bit impatient by her own nature, not anything Remus had said per se. 

He was going to sound so mad. He was going to sound crazy, she was going to share the madness with everyone else – as she must, he didn’t precisely blame her – and then whatever trust remained in his friends would dwindle further or even be gone altogether. He rested his head in his hands, letting the wolf shoulder its part of the stress and deaden it. It was certainly the least it could do. “It won’t let me,” he said, finally letting the words out. 

The kitchen was very quiet as Lily tried to process that. “Remus, look at me,” she finally said, very quietly. He lifted his head and waited. Her expression was mostly unreadable, she seemed to be thinking at a mile a minute. “What is the ‘it?’” 

He hesitated. How to explain the wolf? He had never had to explain something that had been so omnipresent in his life, it would be like trying to explain why he had ten fingers: it just _was._ It hadn’t mattered to those who were ignorant, and those who knew and responded to it needed no explanation. 

“Come here,” he said. They readjusted themselves so they were directly across from one another, and he held her at arm’s length by the shoulders, partly to keep her there and partly to steady himself. “Just… watch me,” he breathed carefully. “Look me right in the eyes, keep them there, and just… hold on.” 

It was easy to goad the wolf into rising to the surface, it was always eager to be in control whenever he would let it. The same instant he stopped it in his consciousness, his fingers involuntarily tightened on Lily’s shoulders and she gasped; perhaps out of the unexpected pressure, but Remus also saw the light of recognition of the unknown in her emerald eyes. The fact that there was an element of fear twisted his stomach only slightly, knowing that he should be more disappointed, but the wolf was too much in control. “What…” she finally stammered. There was no doubt that she had seen what he’d meant for her to see. 

“That was my best shot at explaining it, so bear with me,” he said. “We call it the wolf, it’s – it’s how werewolves recognize one another, and recognize their family. It’s very powerful magic, and because of it I can’t betray Fenrir. It interferes, and won’t let me. When the Longbottoms were talking to me it… attacked. I was about to tell where he -- ” He stopped and swallowed. He refused to acknowledge the familial title of Fenrir as his Father, not in this conversation. He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “I… I wish I could, but I can’t.” 

She was silent for such a long time that he nearly stood up and let himself out, but the second he moved to push his chair back to its original placement he was forced to stop as she threw her arms around him like she had when she greeted him. He was stock-still, the wolf still so near the surface that he was afraid to touch her. The wolf’s curiosity had long since passed, and she was now just a witch with a rather curious parasite inside her. She held on for a very long time, and he eventually lightly touched her shoulder, slightly dazed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just worry about you so. And they’re all worried as well, I know it. You have more friends than you know, Remus.” 

“But they don’t trust me,” he said flatly. 

“They worry,” she repeated. But the fact that she hadn’t denied it didn’t escape him.

~*~

_October 1980_

The payoff was here. Damocles knew that they had it the second their new test subject awoke after the last full moon, tired but otherwise none the worse for wear and eager to tell them everything. It was a bigger exhilaration than he'd expected, and now it was no longer a mere rumour, tales made up by colleagues and passed among the trainees. It was an honest to god reality, and their time to come out was at hand. The three of them -- Chambers, Natalie, and himself were meeting with Mary Brookstanton of _The Daily Prophet_ in a conference room. 

He was, of course, the last to arrive. "Sorry," he said quickly, sliding into the last empty chair. "Hello," he added. 

Mary Brookstanton gave him a broad smile and leaned across the table to offer him her hand. "Hello, Healer Belby, I'm Mary Brookstanton, it's a pleasure to meet you and your illustrious team today. It's an _honour._ It must be a great feeling to have know you've helped the world in such a remarkable way." 

"We've certainly done our best, thank you," he said, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "It's been an honour to be able to do so." 

"I'm sure the Ministry and the rest of Britain will thank you as well, once the news gets out." Mary smiled at Damocles, then to the unsmiling Herbologist and the undoubtedly ecstatic youngest member of the team. "Speaking of, let's get to it. So what finally led you three to this project? Was there a particular catalyst?" 

"I was approached by the Registry, who had in turn been in talks with the hospital to develop something that could have a controlling or neutralizing effect on werewolves during the full moon," Damocles started. "We determined that it was... attainable, and so I accepted and we started hiring the team," he finished, motioning to them. 

Well. That was unsurprisingly clinical from a Healer of his standing, but Mary needed more than that. "I understand you have a relationship with werewolf rights activist Owen Curenton," she began. "Did the death of his daughter Erin and infection of his son Jeremy have anything to do with your accepting this case? Did your own politics, if I presume correctly that you agree with your friend of many years?" 

He was going to be in a lot of trouble, with his superiors or Owen if he didn't phrase this correctly, and took a few extra seconds to say it right. "Owen and I have been friends for a very long time, that's true. His children had no bearing on my decision; he has his way of helping and I have mine." 

Chambers stared at the reporter in vaguely disgusted disbelief. "That question was out of line. Absolutely out of line." 

Natalie sat forward immediately to address the question and keep Chambers from going on. "It's a problem," she said. "The werewolves are quite clearly a problem, Miss Brookstanton, no one is denying that. But that was not the primary reason this potion project was pursued. We wanted to help the werewolf population of Britain contain themselves during the full moon, and therefore make themselves much more... available to employers and the regular wizarding population." 

Mary's quill flew across the parchment. "Thank you, Miss Summers," she said, "and I appreciate your candor. Healer Belby, do you have anything to add?" 

Damocles honestly could have kissed Natalie right at that moment -- not that that wouldn't have been highly inappropriate, she was easily half his age. He tried to keep the grin off his face, but the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "I think that Miss Summers has said it all, and quite eloquently." 

"Thank you, Damocles." Natalie spoke quietly and sat back, hiding her own satisfied smile and ignoring the look of disbelief Chambers had fixed on her.

"I know you've worked very hard on this project to perfect it. Now, in plain English," Mary added with a hint of a joke, "what are the properties of this potion? What can we expect to see from the werewolves who take it?" 

"Well, simply -- and trust us, it is a lot more complicated than this is going to make it sound -- it is a compound of concentrated wolfsbane with other various ingredients to neutralize its effects on humans. It's designed to curb the most violent instincts of the wolf, making it safer and hopefully easier for them to be integrated into the wizarding community," he said. 

"Curbing the violent instincts of the wolf during the transformation and otherwise?" She tapped her quill on the page. "Has the Ministry informed you about how this potion will be used, if it will be made a requirement for werewolves to take, anything like that?" 

"The policy is not our job, but we are reasonably confident that the Ministry knows that this potion is not something that should be handled lightly," he answered. "Although I believe that the idea was for it to be widely distributed with the aforementioned intentions." 

Mary frowned and looked over her notes. "What do you mean by 'handled lightly'?"

Natalie cleared her throat. "If I may," she said. "Wolfsbane isn't an ingredient that should be taken lightly. Enough of it can easily kill a non-werewolf, but it's accurately named, and can really harm a werewolf if it's taken at inappropriate times, taken at an inappropriate dosage, or the potion's prepared incorrectly. This is a potion with one specific use, it's no Pepperup." 

"That's very right," Damocles jumped in. "The production and distribution will have to be regulated very carefully. Done incorrectly, this potion can cause more harm than good and could even be lethal." 

"As with just about any medical potion," Natalie added. "The point being, this is most certainly a fix for the werewolf community to ... to normalise and become part of wizarding society again, but it's not a quick fix."

Mary nodded and finished her notes on that tangent, looking at Damocles directly at her next question. "What are your opinions on the legislation prepared to be proposed about making it a criminal offence to be a werewolf who fails to take the Wolfsbane Potion?" 

So it wasn't just a rumour, then. He'd hoped it was, but he was probably the only person who was in the least bit surprised by that. Matching Mary Brookstanton's eye contact, Damocles said, "From a medical standpoint it's absolutely reprehensible. You can't treat someone without their permission, especially for a potion as serious as this. If it were life or death is one thing, but doing that would be completely out of line." 

She wrote furiously at that and formed a question in the same moment. "It could be argued, Healer Belby, that this is a matter of life or death to a countryside terrorised by werewolves. What do you think?" 

Damocles was unsuccessful at holding back a chortle. "I think there are certainly people who are going to be making that argument. But you can't just dose a part of the population and expect it to solve all problems. This potion has been tested on a relatively small number of people, and there is obviously no telling about possible long-term effects." 

Mary's eyebrows shot up and her quill rose from the parchment. "You're concerned about the long-term effects of the potion. Are you sure this potion is ready to be used, if it's so risky? Why wasn't there more testing?" 

"I'd have to be incredibly unscrupulous to not be concerned. But that's how potion invention goes, it's impossible to see everything that may happen," he answered. "As for why there wasn't more testing, let us say that the Ministry is eager to see what kind of use they can put it to and required a finished project." 

Natalie's jaw dropped a little at Damocles's last sentence, and didn't hesitate to immediately say anything at all to halt Mary's quill from copying that quote down exactly. "But prospects are bright," she said with her most charming smile. "We worked night and day and we have a potion that is very promising, and we're excited to see it at work." 

"It has wonderful potential, of course," he added after a moment. He was getting the very distinct feeling that wasn't something he should have necessarily said, but it had been said. "We merely want it to be put to work in a responsible manner." 

"Mm," Mary agreed, then scanned the three again with a smile that managed to mask her motives, if barely. "Anything to say, Mr Chambers?" She zeroed in on the only silent one.

Chambers returned an equally false smile. He had no interest in sharing his opinions about his work with a leech like this. "Not to you." 

Damocles covered his laugh with a cough, and smiled pleasantly at Mary Brookstanton. "Well. Then I think perhaps we're done here," he said lightly. 

"Yes, we are!" Mary stood and shook Natalie's hand, pretending like she didn't notice how Chambers's hands clenched together in his lap, and reached for Damocles's. "I'll be interviewing you at your Order of Merlin reception, I'm sure," she said. 

"Don't put it on your calendar yet," he said, shaking her hand. "Good afternoon." 

Mary left the conference room with just the same swagger that she'd entered with, unfazed by the apparent rejection and having a scroll with _inches'_ worth of good quotes.

There was a tense silence as they heard the reporter's high heels click away on the floor, and once the sound faded away, Natalie slumped back in her chair and spoke. "Bollocks." 

"That could have gone worse," Damocles said, remarkably calm. He ran a hand over his hair. "Except for the part where it really couldn't have." 

"She baited you," Chambers said, openly irritated now. "We can't be blamed for that. And St. Mungo's PR can clear up any confusion, I'm sure."

" _Bollocks,_ " Natalie repeated, with feeling. "It doesn't matter, she's one of that sort, we could tell her four different things and she would say what she wanted to say. I can't wait for this article, to see just how our words are twisted." 

"I was baited and I bit like a fish." Damocles rubbed his hands over his face. Oh, he was in a lot of trouble -- screwed, they would have to wait on and see. "Well," he said after a very long, silent moment. "Work." 

"Work," Chambers said in definite agreement, and stood to leave and get back to some other, less controversial project. "We're burning daylight." 

"It's what I do best," he said and pushed his chair back. Chambers left the room ahead of him and disappeared down the hall. He was at the door, but noticed Natalie had not moved a whit. "Are you coming?" he asked her. 

Natalie looked at him sideways then just turned her head, still not moving from the chair. "I was so happy this morning," she said. "I was so _excited,_ because it was over, and it was a new beginning, and we had really achieved something. I've never felt like that in my life. And now -- " she threw her hands in the air and pushed herself up out of the chair. "I'm coming." 

"We _did_ do something important. We've done something that was considered impossible for the longest time, and it's a very important tool to bringing werewolves back into the wizarding world instead of pushing them to the very fringes. Just as you said," he told her, and then sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Of course, we have to trust that they're going to use it correctly, and that's the biggest 'if' of all that we've seen so far." 

"I just hate the idea of this... this great humanitarian tool being turned into another battlefield for the rhetoricians." Natalie wrapped her arms around herself. "Nothing to be done. And we're doing all we can, even if the Ministry owns everything we do." She sent him a wry smile, toying with the cuff of her shirt. "You're going to be famous for this. Can you handle it?" 

"Famous for biting the hand that feeds me," he said dryly with a half smile. 

She openly smiled. "I meant the potion. You're the head of the team, it's yours." 

"My name's going to be the one that everyone throws around, yeah. But we all did it," he said. 

"We did." Natalie nodded and quickly turned to the door, heading out. "And now it's over." 

He let her go ahead through the door, her quick steps taking her down the corridor. "Yes. Over," he echoed resolutely, following her from the conference room. Their job was finished, and now the policy and debate over the product could be left to others.

~*~

A secretary jumped out of Newt Scamander's way and into the wall as he nearly bypassed her office. He backtracked and pushed the door open with as much force as he could and remain professional. "Madam Umbridge," he prefaced before launching into, "I know that because you have risen a long way in a short time, you may feel entitled to speak for this Department, but since we have a press secretary and personnel who otherwise work very hard on it that YOU are putting out of a job, it's a damn shame that you can't seem to reign in your tongue as tightly as your -- "

Umbridge, smiling all the while, leaned forward in her chair. "Mr Scamander, sir, I would love to speak with you about this, have a seat! Would you like some tea?" 

"I will not have a seat and I will not take any tea," he said, the subtext being 'and let's not pretend that we like each other.' If there was one thing that he could stand very little of, and that was sycophancy. Umbridge took up more than her share of the Department quota. "Let's just talk about this, employer to employee, and then we can get on with the rest of our... busy days," he finished, glancing at the tea service. 

Umbridge closed the door with a flick of her wand. "Well! What is it you would like to speak about, specifically, sir?" 

"I would like to know, Madam Umbridge, when 'Magical Creatures Department Press Secretary' was added to your job description, because I think I missed it," he said, patiently and calmly. 

"I don't recall ever claiming ownership of the title, Mr Scamander," she replied, folding her hands and giving him a sweet smile. 

"Then perhaps you could stop carrying out the duties of the office as though they were your own," he said, standing at what would to a normal person be considered a somewhat intimidating height, despite his age. "The press comes to you because they know that you will give them something, and then the Department usually has no choice in the matter. I am asking you to keep that instinct under control and ask them to direct their questions to my office or save it for the room." 

"The press comes to me and I am obligated to say something, sir, unless your problem is with what I say instead of that I spoke at all?" she spoke delicately, taking a demure sip of tea. 

"The problem is not necessarily what you say, disdainful speech that it is. Yes, the problem is that you speak when it is not your job to do so," he agreed. 

Umbridge dabbed her upper lip with a napkin and lifted her head to look directly into her boss's eyes. "With all due _respect,_ Mr Scamander, I don't believe you're telling the full truth. Were I repeating the stories that the public relations office chooses to release, there would be no problem. But I choose to tell the truth of what I see and hear, working with these creatures every day, and that is why you are here to denounce me." Her smile widened. "And I am so sorry it had to come to this." 

"All due respect back, Madam Umbridge, but since you seem to be a semi-intelligent _being,_ I am going to say this plainly, and I am going to say this once: you need to do your job, and you need to let the press secretary do theirs, period. You can't speak for the Department if that is _not your job,_ " he said. 

Her corner of her mouth twitched, and she gently set her teacup down and stood, pushing her chair back. "I understand," she said with a nod and smile, "but if you would excuse me, sir?" She reached for the doorknob and added, "I've a meeting with Bartemius Crouch in ten minutes, you see." 

"Oh do you _really,_ " slipped out before he could stop it, and he followed her out into the hallway. It probably looked undignified for the head of the Department to be trailing behind like a lackey, but this was _important._ "If I may ask, what is this meeting concerning the old... person." He could think of no word fit for mixed company that he currently had in his vocabulary for their esteemed head of Magical Law Enforcement. 

Umbridge looked up, and up, at the esteemed head of her Department, and considered him thoughtfully. "I haven't the slightest idea, sir. I can only imagine it has to do with Fenrir Greyback, as you've heard him cite that as one of his concerns, I'm sure, but he set up an appointment with me through memo so I suppose we'll just see!" 

"I see." Bartemius Crouch, leading the crusade against the werewolves because his crusade on Death Eaters was going badly. Promising the head of Fenrir Greyback on a spike because the Dark wizards were winning and there wasn't anything he had been able to do about it. "Be careful of what you say, then. I might be meeting with him myself sooner rather than later." 

"Of _course,_ sir. I really must be going, though," Umbridge said, utterly apologetic down to a slight frown. "If you'll excuse me? I'm sure you must have other, more important things to attend to." 

He should have brought the cricket bat. "Good day," he said, and turned back around to his own office, leaving her to continue in the direction of the lifts.

~*~

_November 1980_

Jeremy Curenton had never been the toughest bloke in a kilometer radius, and when going against a bloke like Wesley, Prince of Darkness, professional arse-kicker and bloody-minded malice incarnate, he didn't actually have a fighting chance in hell. That, however, was not the point. His lip was still split and swollen, his nose broken, his ribs aching, but he didn't care. This was his second punishment, more severe, his last warning -- and now he could safely slip under the radar. It didn't make it any easier to move when he woke in the morning, though, and he desperately sought some sort of comfortable position on the hardwood floor. 

Three hours passed, in which the other unnameds left him there, breakfast was prepared and eaten, and the room flooded with sunlight. He shaded his eyes as best he could and stared at the grain of the floor, letting his mind work. They could beat him half to death and he wouldn't care so long as he could think. He wasn't a dueling Auror or a Hit Wizard, he was just a bloke with knowledge and determination enough to bring down this ideal, and that couldn't be beaten out of him. 

He hoped so, anyway. 

A plan was developing in his mind's eye, and as the unnameds filtered back into the room, talking softly, he raised his eyes and then his head to consider his prospects. There were those who could be used, those who were useless, those who just needed a push, and those who needed controlling. There were those who simply needed to leave so as to truly break from the pack system, and that was the worst group of all, because nothing could be done for them. 

Jeremy felt as though Wesley's foot had found its way into his ribs again as the hard click of Alecto Carrow's brisk footsteps towards the room became audible, and a hush fell over the unnameds again. Much to his surprise, she was not headed past them, but to them, and she stared over the unnameds, who looked at her, uncomprehending. 

"Give me Curenton," Alecto said in a clear demand, no question. "Show me the little upstart. I have something of interest to him." 

"Here, Miss Carrow," a teen named Zachary volunteered, scrambling to his feet and pointing without hesitation to where Jeremy lay huddled. "Miss Carrow, he's, er, been there all day since you, er, since Wesley showed him what was what, Miss Carrow, he's -- " 

"He's a dirty little bastard just like you, I know." Alecto spoke in her crispest tone, hardly about to waste her time listening to unnameds blather on trying to gain her respect. "Curenton." She flicked the newspaper in her hands and it gave a distinct _snap._ "Curenton. Son of a set of useless activists who never achieved a thing, am I right?" 

Jeremy exhaled and forced himself to move, to clutch his ribs and sit up, to ignore the ache in his head. "My mother and father were activists, yes," he said, putting the words together slowly to make sure the sentence made perfect sense. "Useless ... that's a matter of opinion. As is achievement."

"Interesting words from a hopeful revolutionary in our ranks." Alecto knelt in front of him, very close to him, not giving him more than two inches of space to himself. "Are your dreams crushed, little Curenton? Have you seen the light of Fenrir's ideal? Pack can answer all of your problems if you only surrender yourself to it." 

"I'm learning," Jeremy said, not too abruptly, not too easily. Carefully, as the frightened traitor in front of his once hopeful ranks. "I'm trying to learn, Miss Carrow." 

Alecto took a piece of his hair between her fingers, curled it, and gave him a big, wide smile. "Didn't I see you sizing up Fenrir, little Curenton? Not so long ago. Not long enough for me to forget. We won't soon forget you and your pretty face, little Curenton. Your eyes full of hope, your mouth full of smart words. You're not off of the hook quite yet." 

Jeremy gained a pained look, both in acting and in truth. They wouldn't forget him soon, but they had no idea what they were dealing with. "It's a hard habit to break. Fighting. Fighting for something you believe in. It's hard to believe in something so different, Miss Carrow. But I'm trying. I know I have to try." 

He could feel the eyes of the unnameds on him, but he had told them ages ago, _Don't listen to what I say under duress. I work for you. I mean to help you and all of those who don't serve Fenrir in truth. You must trust me no matter what I seem to say. You must, because once they know what I've said, you've lost me. And I may be your last hope._

It was too convenient, but Alecto gave him a slight smile and a nod. "Good. Glad to hear it, boy." She held the newspaper out. "Column on the right. They made the second page, I should send them congratulations, I really should. That's the closest they've made to the front page since the tragedy with you and your little sister." 

Jeremy didn't even hear what Alecto was saying, didn't even absorb what she said about Erin, because the headline said CURENTON RESURRECTS WEREWOLF DEN. The article went on, and on, critcising his father, all but calling it an inevitable failure like the last, but it didn't matter because _Dad had resurrected the Den._ There was a pressure valve now. There was room for those who needed to be saved and could not be saved in the here and now in this situation. 

Dad hadn't given up hope. A knot grew in his throat and worsened as he realised -- he had expected his father to lose hope. He hadn't trusted his father to continue the work. "Oh," he managed, after realising the silence he was causing. "Oh. Well." 

"Oh?" Alecto lowered the newspaper, catching Jeremy's eye, and raised her eyebrows. She took on a sing-song. "An interesting article, don't you think?" 

_Out of my face, you Death Eating bitch,_ Jeremy wanted to say. _I'm guaranteed to beat you all,_ he wanted to say. But premature gloating did no one any good. He let his wolf overwhelm him with its need for his family, its pack, as close as it could feel, and tears pricked his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "Interesting." 

Curious. Alecto lifted his chin as though to examine him like a prize horse, and finally said, "Interesting how?" 

It hurt to say it, but that only made it more genuine. "He doesn't learn," Jeremy forced out. "He never will. No matter how many you burn down. He'll never learn." 

Alecto slapped him hard, sending him reeling and real tears springing to his eyes. "And are you different, little Curenton, than your fool of a father?" 

"Yes," Jeremy managed in a half-sob, now too overwhelmed by the panic of his wolf, the dreadful grief of having to say these things about his father who he admired more than anyone, and for the first time, the question, _is this worth it? Is this really worth it?_ "Yes," he repeated, mostly for his own benefit. 

"Good." Alecto kissed his cheek, the same that she'd slapped, and got to her feet. "Bastards, you're to provide us with food. Do your best, if you fail, the weakest of you will die by Wesley's hands. Understood?" She stared them down, but not a one met her eyes, not even the Curenton. "Good. You have four hours. Do your best." Her harsh footsteps followed her out of the room. 

Jeremy closed his eyes and sank onto his side again, and only a few cautious minutes passed before one unnamed closed the door, and several others approached him, kneeling. There was a flask of cool water in his hands within a minute, and the gentle hands of a former mediwitch on him, a former Healer looking on. They were all ages, younger than he was and three times as old, but he looked at them, for the first time, really looked at them. 

As they looked back at him, he felt like a leader for the first time in many months. Yes. It was worth it. Jeremy Curenton knew what he was fighting for.


	16. Men Plan, God Laughs

_Martine: My family. My love. My home. My sisters, my brothers, their husbands and wives -- if the evil Lucien has his way, we will all perish while grows fat off our misery and heartbreak and the once noble family of Saint Croix will be no more! Maman, how can this be in a balanced universe?  
Adel: Have heart, Martine. God laughs at the great plans of men and strikes them down, repaying them hardship for hardship and evil for evil.  
\-- Phoenix Tears Heal Nothing,_ by Malecrit, 1414, in a 1977 English translation.

_December 1980_  
The few wizards who lived in or near Swansea kept to one street north of the city, but they had certainly never seen the like of the Den. Werewolves were an epidemic of Pembrokeshire, further west, but when Owen Curenton decided to rebuild the Den, they took notice. They rebuilt in a large, old house not all that different from the one that had burnt to the ground. There was room between the houses: far enough that activities couldn’t necessarily be observed by anyone who should glance through their curtains, but close enough to be of concern to anyone who knew what the house was really meant to shelter.

They were officially open come November, but in December the house was still mostly empty. There were a handful of old Den regulars who had managed to run fast and far enough away to not be pressed into Fenrir’s mass Pack, and those Owen had managed to contact and convince that it was safe to return. It wasn’t easy, as wolves usually stuck to the edges of cities if at all. Owen had to hope that the new Den was far enough away from Swansea proper that werewolves would come, but close enough that it would discourage Fenrir Greyback from returning. 

Owen had been known to have many projects on his plate at once, but he was approaching his limit – which wasn’t what it used to be. He theorised that his attention span had dwindled with time and age, but not his ability to get interested and obsess. He looked up from about the millionth Prophet article about the Wolfsbane Potion he was reading for about the twentieth time, and Julia was staring expectantly at him, a few of the photographs from the stack sitting in front of her in her hand. “Sorry?” he said.

She sighed. “You know, trying to help you with this would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to repeat myself. We would literally save half the time.”

“Dunno about that,” he said, resolutely putting the article down. “What is it?”

It still escaped her as to why she’d actually agreed to help Owen. It wasn’t as if he weren’t capable of photographing the house for insurance purposes himself, he’d managed to do it with the first one well enough. “These are total rubbish, they’re too dark. All they’re going to tell you if you have to show them these is that you should have installed more lights,” she said, holding a few out to him.

“Well, I don’t know about that, let’s see,” he said, taking them from her, and holding them at an appropriate distance to glance at them. “They are a trifle dark,” he admitted. 

“I overexposed an entire roll of film and then developed them anyway at your insistence, which you loved, so you will forgive me for not trusting your judgment,” she said dryly. “These are crap, they’re no good.”

Owen looked over Julia’s shoulder at Brighid, who sat behind the writing desk scribbling away intently on the parchment in front of her. “D’you hear the way she’s talking to me? Merlin’s back hair, I thought you were a mute the first six months we knew you,” he said, going back to the photographs.

Brighid crossed her t’s and dotted her i’s and sent Julia a faintly discerning look. “She’s got a lot to say, and with some fire behind it,” she said, not hiding her immediate smile. “I think we’ve been a good influence on her, Owen, without a doubt.” She returned her eyes to the letter at hand, wanting the night’s work finished while her train of thought was still fresh in her mind.

Julia’s face burned pink and she ducked her head, letting her hair hide her face. The Curentons seemed to think if you used two or three words when you could have used ten, that you simply weren’t trying hard enough. “You stick to prose, I’ll do your photography,” she murmured, plucking the photographs out of Owen’s hand.

Owen grinned at Brighid and looked back at the photographs spread out on the floor in front of her. They all jumped slightly as a chime went off, indicating that someone had crossed into the perimeter. “Wards,” he sighed needlessly. 

Brighid sighed and finished her sentence with a flourish. “That might be the reporter, I wrote back to her for the twentieth time but she seems very persistent.”

“I’ll send her away without so much as a hey or hello,” Owen said, pushing himself up off the floor with a groan. He was starting to get old. He left the room in anticipation of a knock and threw the door open a second later, mentally started the brief Turning Away Journalists speech. “I’m sorry but my wi – “ He cut himself off when the last person he would have ever dared to hope see stood there. He was startled stupid.

Jeremy looked up at his father, and despite being in Swansea, so far from the house he grew up in, he felt at home for the first time since he could genuinely recall. The wolf leapt to control him when his nerves struck up at meeting his father’s eyes, but he controlled himself and squeezed Melinda’s hand and nudged her wolf with his. “Good job restarting, Dad,” he said, leaning back to look at the house. “This is pretty damned remarkable.”

Once Owen was sure his heart wasn’t going to crash through his ribcage, he decided that he would actually say something. “Jeremy,” he said in a hushed tone, and then took another breath. “Come in, both of you. Please,” he added, and stood aside for them both to enter -- his son and the girl. Then it could be real.

Jeremy didn’t move at first, as he tried to wrap his mind around the life that had involved this sort of father. After all the efforts he’d made to try to tell the unnameds what was normal and remind them of how a “father” was really supposed to act, even he had forgotten how things really were. He finally stepped inside, holding the door open for Melinda. “Dad, this is Melinda, a ranking named in Conor’s pack, a fine friend and ally. Melinda, this is my father, Owen Curenton, activist for werewolf rights and owner of the Den. The new Den, I should say.”

“Hello, lovely to meet you,” he told her with an irrepressible smile. He could have leapt for joy, but forced himself to be somewhat dignified about it when he spoke to Jeremy again. “You – you’re here,” he said, taking Jeremy by the shoulders and holding him there for a moment.

Jeremy had done a fine job of not showing any real emotion thus far, but looking his father in the face nearly did him in. “I’m here for a reason,” he said. “But, I mean. It’s… it’s really great to see you.”

“Of course,” he made himself say. “Of course,” he repeated, “please, if we can help …”

“Thank you. _Thank you_ for restarting the Den, it’s exactly what we need. I’m taking him down, Dad. We’re ending him.” Jeremy gave his most confident grin. “And we need you.”

“We didn’t know what else _to_ do,” he said. This was his work, his life, just as important as it always had been, if not more. “What I have is yours to use.”

“How many can this one hold?” Melinda was wandering now, Jeremy saw, eyeing the place with some curiosity, but he wasn’t worried.

“About the same as the old place -- probably maxes out at forty, at the minute, not that we’re near that at all,” Owen said. “We have some time before we have to worry about that.”

“Not if I can help it. I need to bring some people here, a lot, actually,” Jeremy started, but stopped as Melinda interrupted.

“A good half of the unified pack,” she said, turning to Owen with a smile. “I hope you can find the space.”

Owen raised an eyebrow at Jeremy. He should have guessed there would already be a plan in place. “Oh really,” he said. He could sort of see where this was headed -- maybe.

“It’s been a year, and you know me -- I figured it out within a few months. Fenrir’s pack is half made up of unnameds, one quarter’s nameds of various packs, and then there’s the ranked nameds, and that last bit’s the only one he actually cares about. If we cut down his numbers…”

“He’ll look back at his pack and find he has nothing,” Melinda completed. “And there’s nothing worse for a pack leader.”

“And you need somewhere to put them,” Owen said. “I understand.”

“Owen, you’ve been out here awhile, we’re wondering who -- " Julia stopped in the doorway the second she got there and could see the scene in the foyer. Her heart seemed to stop and she wasn’t at all sure that she didn’t just walk into a dream.

Of all the people Jeremy expected to hear or see at the Den that day, she wasn’t one of them, and he had to turn and see her to make sure she was real. “Guess you have your answer then,” he said, his tone lightened of its usual confidence.

If there had been a doubt in her mind, the pithy comment got rid of it. “It really is you, isn’t it,” she said, dazed.

“Yeah,” he said, and gained the start of his typical stupid grin. “It’s me all right.”

“I -- " She swallowed, her throat tightened. She wanted to move but she wasn’t sure if she could make herself do it. “Come here,” she said, it came out more of a plea than she meant for it to be.

He wasn’t sure if he could at first, but after one step and then another it was easy enough to walk right up to her and kiss her like he’d dreamed about more than once since leaving her.

Melinda approached Owen easily, her hands tucked behind her back. “I haven’t told Jeremy this, but I’m going to stay here, if that’s all right with you.” She spoke with confidence, but her flush overtook her face nevertheless. “We’re bringing unnameds from some very orthodox packs to the house of a wizard, and we’ll need someone here to… set them straight on the way of things, I suppose?”

“Of course,” he said, and nodded in understanding. “They’ll need some help acclimating.”

Julia found it all too easy to fall into his arms again like an old habit. It _was_ him, and she felt better about everything than she had in a long while. “Love you,” she murmured into his ear, resting her cheek against his.

“Love you too,” Jeremy said, if faintly. “I’m… I’m going back. Tonight.”

There was the catch. The bottom of her stomach dropped out and suddenly, it was all too real again. She didn’t want him to, but she nodded. “Tonight,” she repeated.

“I have to, they’ll notice if I’m gone, I’m suspected enough,” he whispered. “I’m doing something, I’m taking Fenrir down, Julia. Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

She nodded, having to understand even if she wanted to keep him there. “Okay,” she made herself say, and pulled back only slightly so she could see his face -- probably her favourite sight in the whole world, even though she hated to see him look like that, almost worried.

“Later,” he said after a soft moment of silence with her. “I’ll leave later. Do you want to… I don’t know, go somewhere? I don’t mean go – you know what I mean. Melinda?” He raised his voice.

“I have it handled, Jeremy,” Melinda said with a patient tone, but sent Owen an amused look. “We’re ironing out the details.”

It made Owen’s heart light to see Jeremy and Julia again. “Go on,” he told them. “I’ll take Melinda into my office, talk this over. You have some catching up to do. Just make sure you see your mother before you go?”

Julia put a hand to his cheek. “I very much want to go somewhere,” she said simply.

With one gentle touch, she’d made him feel less a general and more a human. The wolf reached to her, and he allowed it to guide him to take her hand. “Then let’s go,” he said, and led her away from Melinda, his father, and all semblance of plans and strategy.

~*~

_January 1981_

Amycus did his best not to think about it, because it was well known that even your thoughts were not your own around the Dark Lord. It was also an accepted and unavoidable truth of the universe, though, that Important Things came up at inconvenient moments. Like being Summoned once you'd stepped out of the shower. 

It was his master's convenience that mattered rather than Amycus's, of course, but there was a certain degree of absurdity to it. He rushed to dress as the Mark burned in his forearm, and Disapparated as soon as he was decent and able.

Alecto arrived an instant later, already practically breathless with excitement at the prospect of seeing her Lord again despite the inconvenience of having been called away in the middle of her time with Fenrir. Seeing Amycus there was a welcome surprise. "Amycus!" This meant no singular punishment for her (a long-time fear of hers) but hinted at something else, something that also excited her.

"Alecto," he greeted her with a rare, fond smile. Summoning the pair of them usually only meant one thing, and if that was the case... he tried not to think about it prematurely, but they were not the Persuaders for nothing. "All right?" he asked her.

She sent him a slight smile and answered without hesitation, "All right." She was too busy preparing to see the Dark Lord, tensed and ready for the sign that they should enter His presence. Bellatrix Lestrange flung open the doors from inside and looked down upon the two with smug disdain, a flush in her pale cheeks. Alecto's head lowered as she walked inside and fell to her knees at the first sight of her master.

Amycus mimicked her position without hesitation, his head lowered deferentially. "My Lord," he greeted respectfully.

The Dark Lord gestured impatiently for them to raise their heads, admittedly pleased at their deference. "Amycus, Alecto. I need your particular talents once again. Go to Azkaban and deal with the dementors, bring them to our side. We have found a way and you will bring it to them."

Dementors. Soul-sucking fiends that Amycus definitely would have preferred to never meet, but the back of his brain was already working on plans. Alecto seemed to be struck uncharacteristically speechless, but he only continued to examine her through his peripheral vision. "We understand, my Lord, thank you."

"The warden has been handled. All the preparations have been made, so handle them and do not fail me. Go now," the Dark Lord commanded.

Alecto couldn't make herself say the words in rare fear of torture from the master's wand, but eventually forced them out. "What about the werewolves, my Lord? What about our mission there?"

The Dark Lord lashed out at her with a cold flash of pain as he invaded her mind and made her fall to her knees once again. "You will follow your orders, Alecto, do you understand?" She cried out as he punished her again. "Your _precious werewolves_ are in capable hands, not as though our halfbreed pets should be of any great concern to a faithful Death Eater. Leave us!"

Before she could say another word, in defense of her beloved animals or otherwise, Amycus quite literally lifted her sister from the floor by her elbows and took her outside. "What the hell was _that?_ " he demanded.

"What?" Alecto spoke faintly as she pulled herself from her brother's grasp. "Nothing. Dementors, hm? That should be fun. More fun than the giants, at the very least."

"A challenge we haven't seen before," Amycus had to concede, although it still felt odd to him. He gave Alecto a discerning glance, and said, "I know that you have a fondness for the..." _dogs_ \-- "werewolves, but your orders -- _our_ orders are clear. This is our talent!" Now that the order had been given, he was giddy with the prospect.

Alecto was not thinking about the werewolves, not anymore. This would be more comfortable, she was sure, less involvement, less diplomacy, mere persuasion in its purest form. Her brother's giddiness was catching; oh, she did miss the art of persuasion. "But the dementors. We're supposed to _persuade_ dementors? I hope you’ve practiced your charms," she teased.

That just went to show that there was no predicting what was going through his sister's head at any given moment. "I suppose we'll have to practise, won't we?" he smirked slightly.

"Exactly! Just like that we have our plans for tonight! Let's get started now," she said, giving his arm a tug.

He resisted only marginally, and only for a split second. "Yes, all right," he said. 

"Excellent." She Disapparated from that very point.

He looked at the spot for only a moment before he followed. There was no doubt that this is what they needed, a chance to return to the capacity where they'd been of the most use to their Master, and the whole set of challenges that came with it. It was... exhilarating.

~*~

Robert Yaxley knew that the Carrows were excited at their new assignment -- persuading the Dementors to do anything would never be any small task. They had always been a bit mad, and this only proved it to him, but everyone under the Dark Lord's command had a purpose. Currently, Yaxley's purpose was to deliver the werewolf's (Fenrir Greyback's, he could hardly even stand to give the beast a name) purpose in Alecto Carrow's absence -- orders, he was assured, that would be to his liking.

Why it was _his_ job, he could hardly understand, but he was also not going to complain. He readily admitted that he lacked diplomacy, let alone the Carrows' particular brand of it, but then again, there were none like the Carrows. But knocking on the door of what sounded like a rather full pack house was not a bad start, he reasoned, and did so. If nothing else it would give him a few more seconds before he was forced to talk to any of them.

Remus was busy with the bastards, Alecto had vanished days ago, so when there was a knock at the door, Fenrir was forced to grab a wand, shove it into Wesley’s belt, and make him answer the door. Wesley ignored the wand, loathing the feeling of the useless stick anywhere near his body, and opened the door with a dull gaze for the man who stood there. "Hello," he said, intently considering the man as an enemy.

Yaxley might not have had diplomacy, but he was not an idiot. He cleared his throat authoritatively and said, "I've come to deliver orders from the Dark Lord to Fenrir Greyback. Is he here?" he asked in a way that wasn't so much a question as a strict formality.

Another one of them. Wesley gave a short nod and a brusque look to the wizard and marched away to find Fenrir where he likely sat with the majority of his pack. Yaxley trailed behind him and tried not to appear as though he was faltering in his steps -- this was a _lot_ of werewolves. How Alecto found this in the least bit appealing or endearing was a mystery to him. He stopped short of the main room, very visible but silent.

A path cleared around Fenrir as he walked towards the entrance to greet the wizard. "Who are you?" he asked, not bothering to welcome him any further.

Yaxley eyed him in return. He considered not giving a name for a moment, but decided that this definitely didn't need to be any more involved or distasteful than it already was. "Robert Yaxley. I have orders from our Lord for you," he said. 

"Yaxley. You're one of Alecto's. Fine. Remus, Laurel!" Fenrir barked to call them forward. He didn't like how the two were starting to lurk back, although at least Remus had reason. "It's the usual thing, of course," he said to Yaxley. 

"The usual," he repeated, glancing at the boy and the girl as they came to stand, but giving neither a second thought. "There are children this time. I find them fairly useless but I understand that they're to your taste, so to speak."

"Children." Fenrir gave an approving nod as he glanced back at his subordinates. "Blood-traitors? What's the crime?"

"Yes," Yaxley said, almost sounding bored. "The man is Smith, he's been found to be behaving in a manner that is less than becoming of someone with blood as pure as his."

"Father." Wesley spoke urgently, and got a nod from Fenrir after a questioning look. He turned to Yaxley. "Where has Alecto gone?"

"The Dark Lord has seen it fitting to send her and Amycus on a mission," Yaxley replied shortly.

Remus remained unflinching and quiet, but not inattentive. It would have been far from the truth to say that he had been fond of Alecto Carrow in any way, but he had the feeling that he'd do well to stay far ahead of Yaxley. "But where?" he asked mildly.

"If it had been of any sort of importance to _you_ I'm sure you would have been told," Yaxley snapped back to the werewolf. 

Fenrir stepped directly into Yaxley's personal space, so close he could smell the wizard's breath. "You don’t speak to my first like that. That is a _good question,_ Yaxley, and you'll answer it while you're in my house. _You_ don't give us orders." He shoved Yaxley back and into Wesley, who suddenly had a knife in his hands and at Yaxley's neck.

It actually seemed to Yaxley like he _was_ ordering -- in his master's stead, if nothing else. But surrounded by wolves who were loyal to Greyback and only him, and with a knife at his neck, he was hardly going to argue any further. "Alecto and Amycus have gone north to reason with the Dementors."

Fenrir accepted that with a nod and gestured for Wesley _not_ to move as he looked back to Remus. "Are you satisfied?" he asked his first.

"I am," Remus said, his mind spinning. He allowed himself and the wolf to feel pleased with the information, so it surely wouldn't be interpreted as suspicious or out of place. 

Fenrir could sense the satisfaction Remus's wolf felt with the news -- the boy was always pleased when wizards were around, and even if it was a fault, he could allow his first some mistakes -- and also the bloodlust of Wesley's wolf. "Wesley," he snapped. "Down."

Wesley skimmed the flat edge of the knife along the skin of Yaxley's neck, leaving no question to whether or not he would have preferred Yaxley leaving the pack house as a corpse. "Yes, Father."

Distasteful, the lot of them. Yaxley kept the contempt off his face the best he could, but it was difficult. He stepped away to regain some personal space and dignity before speaking again. "I will return at the appropriate time, do whatever it is you do to prepare," he said. How could Alecto _stay_ here? He truly doubted her sanity sometimes. "Unless there are more questions..."

"None," Remus responded blithely to Yaxley's pointed look.

Fenrir turned away from Yaxley and gestured that his ranked werewolves should follow him, using the blood tie to tug Remus and Wesley along specifically. "We know our mission, you're free to go," he said to Yaxley, over his shoulder.

Wesley stared at Yaxley as he scrambled after Fenrir, his wolf eager and frightened and ready for blood.

Remus tried to keep the wince inside, he was still not used to the specific pull that Fenrir had on him. He stayed behind long enough to make sure Yaxley was leaving; he couldn't see that man's back fast enough. He then followed Fenrir and Wesley.

"Smith," Fenrir said aloud as they walked to a more isolated corner of the room, and then he genuinely smiled, his wolf ablaze with pleasure, at Wesley. "We’ll have more children for you." Wesley slid his knife into his belt and smiled silently in response.

Children. Fenrir's proclivity and even pleasure towards biting children -- a trait that seemed to have passed to his second son -- never failed to sicken Remus. He remained a blank slate. "That's in five days," he said, mostly for something to say. 

"Not soon enough," Fenrir said with a tone that rather resembled cheer. "Wesley, go fetch dinner. Remus... go about your business." He couldn't have been more pleased with how well Remus was monitoring the pack.

Remus nodded and let Wesley brush past him on the way out before he left himself. He wondered how soon he dare try and send a Patronus message to the Order. His wolf balked at the thought of the treacherous group, and he pushed back at it without too much force lest it incapacitate him as it had at the meeting all that time ago. News about the Carrows would be welcome; they'd disappeared off the radar.

But the Smiths. What could he say? How much would it affect the plot that Curenton had already set in motion? What he needed was distraction, and unfortunately this was exactly the kind of distraction that would never fail. He would have to consider it, and that it had come to that made him quite uncomfortable, but it was something he would have to think about.

He moved to seek out a couple of the children. Perhaps even for just a little while, they could help him forget the Smith children could soon possibly be in the ranks among them.

~*~

_February 1981_

As much as Frank liked for things to go smoothly, he knew that the probability was high they would not go in such a way -- but _damnit_ , the Smiths. One of the last decent pure families, one branch taken out by Death Eaters and their weapon of choice, werewolves. That struck hard, and it was more than a warning to only the younger Smith brother. It was not the first time wolves had been used by the Dark Lord, but it was the first time such a prominently pure family had been attacked and intimidated into silence. Silence almost sickened him more than loud opposition. What he didn't understand was how the Order had a werewolf in Greyback's pack and things like this still managed to happen. 

Despite that it had been a brick wall everytime they'd tried, Frank and Alice had decided to corner Elliot Pittiman of the Werewolf Registry one last time in hopes that he would give them something, _anything_ they could work with. The Longbottoms were never ones to leave at five o'clock on the dot, even now that their son had been born, but it was their best chance of catching Pittiman so that he could not avoid them. "Ready?" he asked Alice at her cubicle.

Alice looked up at Frank from her seventeenth reread of the Smith file, and surreptitiously closed the folder as she forced herself to smile. "I'm ready," she responded, setting the file aside and rising to her feet with the help of the arms of the chair. "Even if we're overestimating that man's conscience too much... well, I'm an optimist."

"You always are," he told her, letting her lead the way to the lift. It hadn't worked so far, but that made them all the more certain that he was the man that they needed to speak with. Fear was, after all, one of the most powerful silencers known. 

"He should be in the office," she said half to herself as they entered the lift. She hit the button for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and glanced at her husband. "Do you think Neville's all right? I mean, he's with your mother, of course he's fine," Alice went on. "But he's so ... little, Frank." And children were definite targets in this war, and with their standing in the Order... "I worry. Rightfully so, I should think." She sought his hand and smiled.

He let her take his hand. Yes, children were very large targets in this war, and having children was supposedly a stressful event at the best of times. "I worry too," he told her simply as the lift stopped and the doors opened. "That's why this ends now."

She nodded and entered the Department, knowing that their faces and purpose might be known, but not caring. The Werewolf Registry was deep inside the Department and they both knew well how to get there after the amount of visits they'd paid Mr Pittiman.

Alice knocked on the surprisingly closed door, only to be startled back a step as it opened nearly instantly. "...You?" Elliott Pittiman said, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the two Aurors. "I thought I told you I know nothing." His hand tightened on the doorknob.

Frank got a foot into the door, just in case he decided to close the door on them. It had happened before. "You've told us, Mr. Pittiman, but we've hit a little snag and we can't do this any longer," he said.

"Don't look at me. Look at the Smiths," Pittiman said with a scoff. "Just. Go do your job and leave me alone. I can't help you, I don't know anything."

Instead of answering right away, Frank looked around the Registry office. Whoever had said that it was barely more than a filing cabinet and a map on the wall was right. There were a couple of desks in addition to those two items, but all in all Frank could see that it made a Department office hardly worth it. "I am looking at the Smiths, Mr. Pittiman. I'm sure that I don't need to tell you what sort of fiasco that is."

Alice clasped her hands in front of her and endeavoured to look exactly like the bright young mother that she was. "It's a _tragedy,_ Mr Pittiman. The whole family, by all indications, murdered -- the children missing -- "

Pittiman gave a snort of laughter and cast the charm on the map to reveal the numbers of the roving dots that represented the tracked werewolves. He spoke without looking at them. "I am more aware of the Smiths' situation than you could _imagine._ "

"Then are you ready to help us?" Frank asked. "This is not isolated, it's bordering on pandemic. That I'm sure you also understand."

"I have three children," Pittiman said darkly. "You can't ask me to talk."

Alice pursed her lips and went to close the door, the buzz of the Department cut off behind them, only then walking up to Pittiman to ask him directly, "Would you sacrifice the lives of countless innocents? Would you watch these others die -- these children, just like your own, Mr Pittiman -- with full knowledge that you could have done something about it?"

Such as he was, Frank sometimes forgot that there were others who were not quite so ready to place life, limb, and family on the line as he and Alice were. He tried not to let it irk him, and it worked. Most of the time. "We have an infant son, Mr. Pittiman. We understand the instinct to protect. It would be a great thing to protect others as well."

Pittiman at last actually looked at Frank. "Can you protect me?" he asked the Auror.

There was a part of him that said he should not make promises, but this was important, and the Order could help. "We can."

"Frank," Alice said urgently, going back to his side to take his hand. This was unwise. No promises could be made, especially during this sort of war.

"I know," he said to Alice, a bit shorter than he'd meant to. The 'how' would come, for now he needed to focus on the long term result. If the MLE couldn't do anything, the Order surely could. 

Pittiman looked around the office, rightfully paranoid, and spat the word out. "Fine."

Half in apology and half in reassurance, Frank squeezed her hand briefly before turning back to the matter at hand. "Then... as you will," he added, unsure of where to start now that they'd gotten an agreement to talk.

Pittiman nodded to himself and picked up his briefcase, walking past the two Aurors. "You know where I live," he said. "You can meet me there. You can understand why I don't want to be seen with you."

Frank nodded in return. He did understand. "We shall," he replied.

Alice watched him leave and looked back to Frank, her eyebrows raised. "That was too easy," she said.

"Scarily so," he agreed. In a moment of curiosity, he moved to examine the map. Small dots marked the tracked werewolves, and some of them flickered like a candle in a breeze. "But we don't have any other road open to us right now."

"We can't promise him anything, Frank." Alice wrapped her arms around herself. "I wish we weren't right. I wish he wasn't... he has _three children._ "

"I wish we weren't right either," he said, beginning to truly regret having said a word. There was no telling what could happen now, but he was determined to not go back on his word now. "When he tells us what we need to know, I'll... arrange something." He wracked his brain.

She lowered her voice, leaving it barely audible, in case of voice recording charms or detection of other sorts. "The Order would be willing to help, if nothing else. We have to find a way." She checked her watch. "We should be able to go now," she said, tensed and ready to get to it.

"Yes," he said with a slight sigh. He straightened again and turned back to face Alice. The Order should be able to stay that far ahead of the Death Eaters, at least. "It's... it's _doable._ This is too important to let go," he added, moving for the door.

Alice let him open the door, stepped outside again into the bustle of the Department, and released a breath she'd apparently been holding. When Frank came out of the office behind her, she said, "We need to hurry. He might try to run."

"Right. Pile the wife and kids onto the family broomstick and make a dash for it," he said dryly, although he felt incredibly humourless. He called the lift and let Alice step in first and pressed the button for the Atrium before anyone else could pile on board and they lost precious seconds.

They were out of the lift, out of the Atrium and to the door of the Pittiman house within minutes. It was a nice, average house for a nice, average family, and Alice felt a little ill as she saw the garden and the football hidden in the bush. They had been a happy, normal family before the Death Eaters had stepped in to complicate everything. She set her jaw and squeezed Frank's hand before she knocked.

Pittiman opened the door with an abrupt yank within a few seconds of the knock, greeting them with an urgent, impatient hiss of "Come in, come in." He ushered them in and glanced outside, although it was fruitless; the Death Eaters and their spies were invisible, and that was the true danger.

The abruptness of the answer had jolted Frank (he wouldn't have said startled) but at Pittiman's prompt, he let Alice in first, and they waited in the foyer as Pittiman checked. "Thank you again," he said, drawing Pittiman back inside, "for agreeing to speak with us."

Alice followed Pittiman's gaze outside until he shut the door just as quickly as he'd opened it, and she saw nothing. "We're Aurors, Mr Pittiman. We haven't been followed."

"You can't guarantee me that," said Pittiman, but he relaxed somewhat in his own home. "Would you like tea?"

"No thank you. Let's just talk," Alice said with the kindest smile she could muster. The poor man's nerves were shot, there was no helping it. "Shall we sit?" 

Pittiman nodded and led them into a sitting room, nudging a football out of his way with a fatherly sigh. "I have been aiding the Death Eaters," he said. "This November it'll be three years. I've been breaking the Registry tracking charms and relocating the packs into abandoned properties when the houses get too full."

None of that precisely surprised Frank, but he exchanged a look with Alice at that. The obvious terror he felt for his family suggested this was not a choice he'd willingly made, to put it mildly. "How did they contact you? The Death Eaters, I mean."

"I made an attempt in 1977 to find Fenrir Greyback or any werewolves attached to him. He wasn't registered, but there was a noticeable collection of werewolves in an area nearby the Den, and I thought they might know. I personally went to this place and I met a nice young woman there." He gave a dark laugh. "Not so nice when she pulled her wand on me and threatened to kill me unless I did what she and the pack wanted."

Aha. "Alecto Carrow," Frank said, more to Alice than to Pittiman.

"Yes," Pittiman exclaimed the instant the name left Frank's mouth. " _Yes,_ Alecto Carrow, that sadistic bitch, and that lumbering idiot brother of hers. She’s gone, I don’t know where she went, but I know where the werewolves are, all of them."

"Yes," Frank said, every bit of disdain he had for the Carrows showing. He was silent for a moment, letting his brain work on the information. "So. By making you work on all that... they've effectively screwed the MLE."

Pittiman stayed silent for a long moment, looking at the clock, eyeing the window, before he stood. "Yes, until I give you all of the details I just described."

Frank gave a quick, solemn nod. "We'll hear it all."

Pittiman shook his head and left the room with a brisk walk. He called after a moment later, as Alice peered after him curiously, "I have something better! Much, much better!"

Alice sat back, unable to shake some restlessness. "At least he seems to have calmed down," she said, keeping her voice hushed in case he came back.

"Unless he's rushing out the back door," he replied, scratching his jaw thoughtfully. "Do you think this is going to be a full disclosure?"

"I think with the risk he's taking, it's going to be all or nothing." She couldn't help but be somewhat excited at the prospect of real, _useful_ information outside of oblique, outdated hints. But then it struck her. "Frank," she said urgently.

He nodded slightly as she spoke, and glanced at her. "Alice," he replied.

"What if this isn't real information?" She spoke in a soft tone, not revealing the panic that had her paling visibly. "What if this is a trap?"

If this were a trap... he tried not to think about it. His instincts told him not, but there was always a chance. "I don't think it is," he said quietly. "But keep a hand on your wand."

"I mean -- the information, Frank, what if he gives us the wrong -- " Alice looked up, her cheeks flushed as Pittiman returned to the room with an envelope in hand. "Oh! Is that it, Mr Pittiman?"

"Yes it is, Auror Longbottom," Elliot said with an undeniable note of slightly manic cheer, and held the envelope out to the married couple.

Frank shot her a look that she hoped he caught -- they could talk about _that_ in their own home that they knew was at least a secure location. "Thank you, Mr. Pittiman," he said.

Alice accepted the envelope, uneasy at his smile, though. "Thank you, Mr Pittiman. Thank you very much for your help."

"We can set up a temporary anti-Apparition ward -- we can get Marlene to help us with something more permanent," he said in a sidebar to Alice. "Thank you," he repeated.

Pittiman nodded. "My son should be getting home soon, just make sure he can get home," he said. "My wife and I will do whatever we can to be of help."

Alice just nodded and stood, already making mental notes on what sort of wards they could put up for the Pittimans' safety, because they would need it.

"Keep playing your part, and we'll do ours -- we'll do that now," he nodded at Alice, and stood.

Pittiman sent them a triumphant sort of smile and exited abruptly without a further farewell, perhaps too frightened of the implications of what he'd just done.

"Well," Alice said, once he was presumably out of hearing range, and her head had stopped spinning from the sheer _luck_ that a direct witness to this brutality had actually come forward after so long. She smiled. "This is ... a start."

"A good start," Frank said. He was already conjuring the arithmantic map that would create the ward, and poked around with it for a moment. "An incredible show of fortitude on his part."

Alice looked through the information in the folders again. "We should visit Miss King soon," she said after a reflective moment of taking in as much of the information as she could.

"It has been awhile since we've talked with our favourite hostile witness," he answered dryly, and glanced back at her with a crooked smile.

"Susanna King turned hostile witnessing into an _artform,_ " she said, smiling back at him.

"That she did," he said, and poked around in the map again before closing it. "That should be that. They can get out and in, and we can get back in to build up the wards, we'll just have to Side-Along Marlene in. Let's get home."

Alice slid the information back into the folder. "At last," she said with mixed weariness and relief.

"Yes," he agreed. "We'll look at it more at home. Ladies first," he added, and followed quickly after her when she Disapparated.


	17. 'Til Death Do Us Part

_In the unsafe world that whirled around us, most of us grabbed whatever we could to hold on to in the madness -- each other, usually. Young, quick marriages became more common. I had one myself, and still the only explanation I can give is that if we were to die, we wanted to have everything before we did._ Stewart Cauldwell, _A Shadow Cast By Green Light: A Wartime Memoir,_ 1984.

_March 1981_  
Julia was okay with being slightly pathetic when it came to opportunities to see Jeremy. She stayed at the Den more often than she did before, increasing her chances to see him. She wanted to see him badly, it almost hurt her. She had long given up on knocking and let herself in by the front door. For early evening, the house was strangely quiet.

She glanced into Owen's office where he sat scribbling at the desk. He glanced up at her, and without salutation or preface, said, "He brought two." He looked back down. "He was hoping it would be more, but he brought two."

She was okay with being pathetic, but apparently not okay with being transparent. Her face blushed pink and she ducked her head, letting her hair fall in her face. "Two."

"He was going to leave again, but Brighid got scary and ordered him upstairs to rest," he continued. "Granted, I'm pretty sure it's not happening." 

"No, probably isn't," she said, pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands. He was upstairs.

"Second door on the left." She nodded, but couldn't seem to get her feet to move. When Owen looked up again, Julia was still standing there. "Julia, get out of my office," he said, but with a touch of humor.

Taking his meaning, she backed away and found the stairs, taking them two at a time on the way up. The second door on the left came, and she stopped with her hand raised, ready to knock. She could hear his voice on the other side of the door. The words were indistinct but it was his voice, and every part of her body seemed to jump and start. She waited until her heart started beating again, and knocked.

It was the end of a long week for Jeremy. It started with a full moon, continued with a close call with Laurel, and then the long trek to bring any unnameds he could manage to smuggle out without notice to the Den. All this and Jeremy ached in places he didn't even know existed before he'd begun this whole insane plan. He was tough, though. Jeremy Curenton, saboteur extraordinaire, could take a week of living hell, even if his mother hadn't thought so and sent him to his room as though he was a fifteen year old upstart again. 

It turned out very little had changed, besides circumstances and proportion of trouble. 

Rest was a waste of time, though, and the risk of being caught by his mother was worth some extra work. If he was going to be here, he was going to be doing some good, and so he began a quiet discussion on wizards, werewolves and the troubles between them with Zachary, a particularly wary unnamed. Midsentence, Jeremy stopped as there was a knock at the door. "One second," he added to Zachary, and went to answer it.

Julia kept her hands on the strap of her bag to keep them from doing something else, and her heart sped up again at the sight of him as the door opened. "Hi."

She was the person Jeremy had expected least to see, likely a good indication of how pessimistic his viewpoint was these days. Stunned, he looked at her for a moment before finally echoing "Hi." He had almost forgotten what she had looked like. He reached out to touch her arm in a quick show of affection, and, without moving, said to Zachary, "I'll talk to you later." The unnamed darted out of the room without looking at Julia, and left them alone.

She held her breath until they were standing alone in the doorway. He did look exhausted, but not as bad as she might've thought. So much from keeping her hands from doing anything, they were busily working the strap of her bag. "Your dad said you brought two this time," she said.

He watched her fiddle with the strap, both endeared by it -- it was amazing how you missed the little things when you didn't see someone every day -- and finding it surreal. Each time he saw her, she was more of a witch and he was more of a werewolf, whatever that meant for them. "I meant to bring four. Wesley killed one and the other fled. Still, it's something."

"Right," she nodded, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to let it go slowly. She hadn't thought about what after. "I guess -- it's so wonderful to see you," she blurted out.

He took her hand and found himself smiling, then laughing to himself. "You. You are beautiful," he said, then replayed that in his mind. "I missed you. Come in," he finally decided upon.

Julia blushed pink again, but squeezed his hand, nodded, and walked past him into the room. She released his hand long enough to lift her bag off her shoulder and faced him again. "Well, you've got me now."

He closed the door and allowed himself a smirk, placing his other hand on her hip. "Lucky me," he teased her, and went on, "did you miss me?"

God, she could cry. "Yeah, I missed you!" she said, exhaling heavily. "What else d'you think I get up to with my time?"

He couldn't allow himself to feel guilty, so he had to joke. "Taking pictures, playing a bit of football, that sort of thing," he said, smiling. 

She nodded slowly. "Well. There is a lot of the former, less of the latter." She concentrated on his hands, where they touched her body, and touched his cheek affectionately. "Doesn't sound like anything compared to what you get up to, though."

This wasn't going to be casual, he didn't know who he was trying to kid. "It is what it is, I don't overthink it. I just do it. You know?"

She nodded slowly, and for the first time since she came in the room felt compelled to glance at her feet. "I know."

Jeremy decided to speak so he wouldn't just snog her. "I'm thinking I might sneak out the back a bit early," he said. "I can get sleep back at the pack, it's a non-issue. I'd rather be doing something while I'm out and about." He hesitated and kissed her forehead, feeling the wolf stir at a sense of _home._

Her eyes closed when he kissed her, and she bit back a sigh. "They're just worried about you, is all," she said, forcing herself to stay then and there.

"It doesn't matter if I'm tired or -- or whatever Mum said." Jeremy rested his forehead against hers, not wanting to move away. "I'm fine. I can do what I have to do, that's what _matters._ Who cares if I'm tired?"

Given how she thought Brighid had felt about her years ago when she'd first knocked her head against the grate in the kitchen fireplace, Julia couldn't believe she actually felt completely accurate with her next statement. "It's mostly for her peace of mind rather than yours. Trust me," she said with just a tinge of her own worry.

She was worried, and now Jeremy was worried. Not for himself, but for her. He looked at her, actually looked at her for the first time in a very long while. "Julia." He spoke more softly now. "Julia... I'm sorry. I wish it wasn't like this. I'm so sorry."

"But it is," she said, not angry or accusatory, just matter of fact. She qualified it as fast as she could. "I mean. I might not know a lot, but I know this is important and even if I want... it's okay. But I think the hard part is just not knowing how you are."

Jeremy scoffed, touched her face, and spoke next in complete grim confidence. "You don't want to know how I am out there. You're better off with your imagination."

She chortled in return. "I don't know, I have a pretty active, morbid imagination."

"Forget it," he said quietly, wearing a strange sort of smirk as though it was good he could win the 'no, it really is worse than you think' game. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Lots of pictures to take, and lots of people willing to pay for me to do it. So... I've been keeping busy. Your parents have been amazing to me." She was edging on babbling, so she stopped herself from saying anything else.

Jeremy closed his eyes just to shake the feelings creeping into his mind and agitating the wolf, and restored himself to a calm and neutral place. "It's good they're here for you," he said. "And it's good you can help them. I mean. They ... they can't be used to an empty house, I suppose." How awkward. "I don't know how much longer this is going to take. I thought this might be ... it might take longer. A lot longer."

She wasn't sure what to think. She wanted him with her, but knew it was pointless to ask. Instead, she nodded and disentangled herself from him to sit on the edge of the bed. "Yeah," she said, so he wouldn't think she wasn't acknowledging it. "So. How are things?"

He went to sit next to her without hesitation. "It's been easier ever since the Carrows got pulled. I have his heir as my ally now, so it's easier to cover up the competent rebellion with an incompetent one, so he'll think he has things under control while we're moving the unnameds here behind his back."

"An incompetent rebellion to cover up the real one," she said as her brain wrapped around it. It was... very Jeremy.

Jeremy couldn't have been more pleased. "Exactly. It would be suspicious if nothing happened. It all works out, Julia. We can do what we want and they don't even see it."

She crossed her legs, and studied his face for a moment before speaking. "So. What _has_ happened?"

He had to remember that not everyone knew what he was up to, which was good, if he thought about it. "We've been doing some things badly on purpose so Fenrir has some sort of revolution to squash."

"And then you can do your thing behind his back, right," she said. "A fake rebellion that he's got under control and is crushing and the real one he's not."

"Yeah. It's nothing you need to worry about," he concluded. "I'm not making any stupid mistakes, I can't afford to."

Julia wasn't even thinking about that -- not now, anyway, although that had been enough to confirm her suspicion that his nose had been broken at some point -- but what she was thinking about... well, she didn't really know. She wasn't used to her brain working at this speed. "What's the decoy rebellion been doing?" she asked, twisting a piece of hair around her finger.

Jeremy considered how to say it. "They don't trust me. I let word get to Fenrir's personal enforcer that I was causing trouble. Seeing a bastard get crushed under his foot, well, that made Fenrir’s people just that much prouder, and more arrogant." He dismissed that one with a gesture. "Then we had someone try to attack the new Death Eater. He didn't get anywhere close, didn't die, but it was close enough that it made some of the unnameds nervous. I'm not worried, they'll get used to the risk soon."

She was silent for a moment, considering it, and speaking when she reached the breaking point with her frustration at herself of being unable to make the connections meet where she wanted them to. "It sounds like... It sounds like you need to... I don't _know,_ " she finished.

He put his arm around her, leaning close just because he could -- because he couldn't most nights, after all. "No. Go on. I want to hear. You are a Slytherin, after all," he added wryly.

"I don't quite know what I'm thinking," she confessed, adjusting herself so that she could lean back against him. She stared at his hands covering hers, and spaced out while she tried to put pieces together and make them fit in her head. It was a long process that felt like it slowed with every second that passed.

After a silence that had lasted several minutes but during which he had waited patiently for her, she said, "I don't know if this is going to work," and she didn't, all she knew was what he had told her, "but it sounds like you haven't gone for Fenrir yet. You've involved others around him, but... it hasn't hit _him_ yet. If you go after him and let him think that he's totally crushed your rebellion, then he really won't look twice at you. You'll be able to bring people faster and with less worry."

Jeremy stared past her and toyed with her fingers a bit in silence as he considered it. There was a long moment where the wolf tensed his shoulders and forced his heart into his throat as he dared to consider such an idea. _Patricide,_ even if it was false. "You're right," he said finally. "We try to kill him and we fail."

_There are so many ways for it to fail._ She made the words stop before they could cross her lips. Failure was not an option for Jeremy, Julia wasn't sure he even knew how to fail. "Once he thinks he's destroyed you, it'll be easy to bring them out."

"Yes," Jeremy agreed, and brushed her hair away from her cheek to kiss it. "Yes. And then I'll be here more," he added more casually. "Not long, not... too long, but if the suspicion is gone, then maybe I could take an evening. We could ... we could be normal. Get a drink."

As much as she wanted to cry before, now she wanted to laugh. And she did so. "God. I wonder what being normal feels like."

"Nothing we've ever felt I bet," he laughed. "The werewolf and his witch, a pair of activists, asking for trouble, seeing each other once in a blue moon."

Julia settled against him, fitting comfortably with her head in the crook of his neck. "I don't mind being your witch. Really."

Jeremy chose not to disturb the moment with a kiss. There was this sense of calm, of real peace settling over him, and he realised with shock that it was a moment of silence and union with his wolf, while he was with Julia. This was new. "I didn't mean to say it that way," he said, just to say something, "but that's how they think of us. That and the opposite, a witch and her werewolf. We're rare."

"Rare, but not impossible," she said quietly. If something else had entered her mind as often as the possibility that he might not come back at all, it was he could return but not want her. Thankfully, it didn't feel like that was the case at all.

"No," he said, astounded at the very idea that they would run into any difficulties worth consideration. "No. You're pack."

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, she was unsure of whether she was amused or simply happy for the moment. "Pack, huh."

He couldn't help but feel a bit dazed. Weird. That was just weird. "Yes. Yes you are. Finally."

"Finally," she echoed, and closed her eyes briefly to rest.

Yeah, this was pack, he thought, or as close as he’d get. He was here with her, and comfortable -- but he couldn't lose his head. He had too much at stake to get lost in himself and in her and in _them._ "I'll stay for a while longer," he said. "But I'm not staying the night."

She gave a short nod. "It's okay. I get it," she said.

Jeremy nodded slightly, glad to be spared from the guilt for a moment. He stayed close to her, quietly resting and trying not to let the exhaustion set in. He stroked her hair and gained a faintly troubled look as he measured his words, and only then did he speak. "Would you marry me, Julia?"

It took a moment for the words to permeate her relaxed state of mind, but once they did she sat up and looked at him. That moment was the one where she fully grasped the words. "I would. In a minute, I -- Jeremy, _yes!_ "

He couldn't do anything but grin, although his excitement was tempered with doubt and fear of obstacles, but he kissed her anyway. Upon pulling away he said, always the bloody chatterbox, "It'll... it'll be a lot of work, don't think it won't be, there's a lot of paperwork and technicalities we'd have to dodge. And we might -- I don't know, we might do best to wait until I'm back for good."

"It'll be worth it," she said quickly, before throwing her arms around him. It wasn't something she'd even let herself think about, and she wanted it more now than she'd ever wanted everything. "They won't stop us," she said. "Let them try."

Just the idea that she would accept him not only as a werewolf, but as one with the life he’d chosen, was insane, but that she had only made him more sure. "All right," he said, resolute. "We'll do it. I..." He was planning even now, planning too much, this wasn't a chess piece to be placed. His marriage wasn't something to be factored in, or was it? "I don't know. We should tell them," he realised.

"Tell th -- your parents?" she asked, pulling back slightly.

He nodded. "Unless you don't want to, I dunno. I won't be back for a while, I have an assassination to plan."

The more she searched for one, the fewer reasons she actually found to keep this quiet from Owen and Brighid. "No, we can -- we can tell them." She gave him a short kiss and then extricated herself to stand. She doubted she could keep it to herself that long, and he deserved to be there when they heard it.

"Yes," Jeremy agreed, and stood as well, anxiously going for the door. He was engaged. "And if there's time we can sneak back up here." He glanced back at her with a smirk.

Her smile returned, in full force. "I see. Lure me to bed with promises of marriage."

"Ah, you know what they say about best-laid plans," he said, grinning widely.

Julia gave a sound that was half a groan and half a laugh. "I guess if we didn't know, we would be about to find out," she answered, resting her hand on the doorknob for a second. "I love you," she added.

"I love you, too." Jeremy stole one more kiss before they left the room.

They made it back down the stairs before stopping. "Well, your dad was in the office but I didn't see your moth -- OH," she interrupted herself, stumbling slightly backward when they rounded the corner, very nearly running over a rather unamused Brighid. He automatically steadied her, and she covered her fluster with, “Brighid.”

Brighid inspected her son closely, and put her hands on her hips, staring him down. "I thought you were going to get some sleep," she chided him, and added to Julia, "he's been sleeping less than five hours a night, can you believe that? With all that he's doing?"

Julia hardly needed to look up at Jeremy to know what kind of look he had on his face, but she did all the same. "Yeah," she said simply, her face breaking into a grin at the sight of his. "I can." She impulsively grabbed one of Brighid's hands. "Come on. We need to talk to you."

"Yeah," Jeremy said, helpless to his own grin. "Come on, we have to talk to you and Dad, have you seen Dad, where is he?" 

If that grin of the girl's hadn't surprised Brighid, Julia's reach for her hand certainly had. "Working, where else," she answered Jeremy, then sent Julia a smile and squeezed her hand. “I'll come along then, we've all some work to do yet tonight, though, so you'll have to make it quick."

"It won't take any time," Julia promised, and pulled Brighid along with them. "Owen!"

Owen was exactly where Julia had left him, behind the desk, and he looked up again, except this time his son and his girlfriend had his rather abashed wife in tow. "Well. Hello," he said, a little amused.

Jeremy was really trying very hard not to be visibly thrilled, but it wasn't working, only because the confusion of his parents was admittedly funny. "Hi Dad," he said. "Ah, Mum, you might want to sit down." 

Brighid sat down next to Owen, staring now with utter suspicion at her son. "I don't like the looks of this," she said to her husband. "They're being very _secretive._ And giving each other looks.”

Owen gave her a smile. "We did no less when we were their age," he reminded her, before looking at Julia and Jeremy. "Well. You have us waiting, you two," he added to them mildly, looking between them.

Julia looked at Jeremy, and he was giving her an expectant look back. "He..." She faltered after a moment, looked back at Owen and Brighid, and kept her hold on Jeremy's hand. "Jeremy's asked me to marry him and I said yes."

Brighid's hand flew to her mouth and she instantly looked at Jeremy. At the sight of his stupid grin, she knew she couldn't have imagined hearing that. "Oh my dear lord," she exclaimed. "You two!"

"Oh, what extraordinary news!" Owen exclaimed at the same time, rising from his seat to embrace them both.

Jeremy found himself and Julia in the middle of a family group hug, apparently, as Brighid joined them. "It'll be a battle but we're willing to fight for it," he said to his father once the rejoicing was settling.

"As is everything worth having," he replied, touching the rising blush in Julia's cheeks with a measure of fatherly affection. "Congratulations."

Jeremy struggled for a moment with his comfort and his duty -- this was pack, this was what he had been missing, but he had other obligations. Big obligations. He smiled nevertheless. "Thanks for sending her up," he quipped to his father.

"You're welcome," Owen said amusedly, and looked to Brighid, who had been strangely quiet. "B?"

"What?" Brighid looked up, quickly wiping her eyes. "What, I'm fine."

It was an awkward place to be standing, but Julia was happy where she was right then. She leaned against Jeremy and said, "Well... that's all we had."

"That's enough, I think." Brighid looked at her son and, well, his fiancee, and smiled. "We do all still have work and rest to get up to."

"Right. Rest," Jeremy said, not looking at Julia, really. "Sure, I'll catch some sleep."

Owen seemed to know better, giving him a look that suggested he at least lock the door first. "You do that, then," he said dryly.

Jeremy sent his father an innocent look. "I need to get some sleep. I'll see you both -- all of you, I mean -- before I leave. I might even get a whole six hours of sleep for the day," he added with a look to his mother. 

"Of course," Owen replied. He could already see Julia edging out of the room, Jeremy following, inch by inch. "Good night."

"Goodnight," Jeremy concluded with a bright smile, and left the room, unable to hide a smirk as he glanced askance at Julia.

"...Bye," Julia ended the conversation and let Jeremy pull her behind him. They went to the stairs again and it was a moment before she laughed and said, "My god, Jeremy, we're doing it."

"That's right," he said, looking back at her slyly. "We're engaged."

"Yeah," she said, feeling her heart speed up, and she smiled back.

He stopped, took her hands in his, and couldn't keep himself from kissing her. "I should go," he said immediately upon pulling away. "Soon. I can't get caught up in all this or I won't be able to go back."

"I know," she said. She did know it and she still hated to hear it. But once he did it... he could come back. Her only hope was to go along with it. "I know you do."

"I have to go back," he repeated, half to convince himself, and exhaled as he realised exactly what he was in for. Someone was going to die. "Will you forgive me for what I'm going to do?"

She touched his face lightly, so lovingly it almost hurt her to do it. "Don't even think about it. I mean, think it out, but... don't overthink it. Just get it done," she said quietly, but firmly.

There was no question in his mind, now, why she was pack. He smiled, if grimly, and pulled her close. "I love you," he said.

“You better," she replied with a tinge of humour in her voice, one arm around his back and one hand on his hair. "I love you, too."

Jeremy laughed. "Come on," he said simply, kissed her hand, and grinned. She grinned back and followed him the rest of the way up the stairs, for a few more moments of peace before he had to leave again.

~*~

Without Alecto, a lot of things had changed for Fenrir Greyback, but only him. Yaxley was sparing with details and explanation, and the question of the war that raged between the wizards became less of a curiosity than a vital piece of information with every week she was gone. He busied himself as the head of the unified pack and sat with the former Smith children and Wesley for a while, his hand on the eldest Bethany's light hair as he thought, and listened to Wesley speak gently to the children.

"Each full moon it gets better, it gets easier, so long as you just do as your wolf likes every day. Not _everything,_ but enough. It's balance -- once you have that, you have everything," Wesley told Mercy. "It won't happen again for you, Mercy, I promise."

Mercy stayed upright more out of sheer stubbornness and will than feeling well enough to do so. She was leaning against little Josiah -- he seemed fine, and Bethany was fine, and she was going to have a new scar over one eye. She rubbed it tenderly, wincing at it. "Not again," she repeated. "It's _hard._ "

"Don't touch it," Wesley chided her. "And the first few full moons are hard. All that trouble is just the wolf trying to settle -- it's scared, it's angry. It knows how you feel, and it feels the same." He touched her forehead, gingerly. "To control it, to make things better, you must control _yourself._ "

"I like it," Bethany interrupted, but tensed as her Father's hand stopped on her head. "Once you've got it right, Mercy, it's -- " She laughed aloud at the feeling of the wolf and let it reach out to her sister's. "See? It's happy."

Mercy's wolf jumped to touch her sister's, and reached in all directions -- to Josiah, and Fenrir and Wesley as well. She braced herself on the floor to keep upright and took a deep breath. She tried reining it in, letting it touch Bethany's as it had wanted -- compromise. Control. Like Wesley said.

Fenrir grinned at the touch and gave a fatherly nudge to each of his children there. "Good, you've got it, Mercy. You've got a whole month to work." Bethany's wolf gratefully latched onto his after the touch, and he accepted it, taking her hand, but there were other things to consider. He reached out for Remus, and gave him a sharp yank, sensing distraction. _Remus._

On the other side of the house, Remus stopped talking in mid-sentence to Briony. Whatever he'd been saying -- it seemed to have jumped out of his head -- it was unimportant. He swallowed and leaned his back against the wall before he looked back up at her. "It's -- nothing," he said at her concerned glance. "I'll come find you."

She recognised the look on his face, and knew what was likely behind it. "Don't keep him waiting," she nodded, and touched his arm.

He gave her hand a brief, grateful squeeze, and left her in the corner. It felt like his feet couldn't carry him to Fenrir fast enough for the wolf's liking, but he forced it back, staying calm. He stood in the doorway where he saw Fenrir with Wesley and the three Smith children.

"Oh, good, you didn't _dawdle,_ " Fenrir said acidly, but gave his son a wry smile. "The rest of you can go, Wesley, take them to join the others or something."

Bethany gripped his hand. "But Father, please," she pleaded.

He touched along their tie, sternly gentle, and she smiled; he released her hand. "Go, play with the children, go on, all of you."

Oh, this boded well. Remus stood aside while Wesley took the three Smith children, little Josiah eagerly leading the way. He tried to get a grasp on the tone in the room, or even just on Fenrir. The mixed signal was not a good sign. "I was just talking to Briony," he said, dismissive about it as anything.

"Were you, good, you're looking after her, keeping her out of trouble? Close the door," Fenrir added as an order, with a similar push along their tie.

He came in and pulled the door closed as he did so. "She's no trouble," he replied.

"No trouble, really, that's hard to believe. But maybe you're a good influence."

He might've laughed, if he weren't mildly terrified. "That must be it," he agreed instead.

Fenrir snorted, then sent his son a wry smile. "Sit, I've got a few questions for you." Remus didn't do so well with questions in general these days. Still, he didn't really have a choice in the matter, so he did as Fenrir requested. "Alexander was a politician, I know that much, what about you, did you ever think much about it?"

The question came from so far out in left field, Remus wasn't sure that he wasn't being pranked. "I," he started, and took a moment to wrap his mind around the question once he realised Fenrir was awaiting an answer. "I hadn't... considered it, really, no," he finally said.

"Then I figure you're not really on a side -- well, you weren't, when you were acting as a wizard, I mean," Fenrir amended, idly considering his son.

"I was a teenager, it wasn't really -- " He stopped himself, and started again, "The things that have been happening, it's... polarising. Everyone's on a side."

"I don't care what side you were on before," Fenrir mentioned, not even bothering with subtlety. "You're on our side now. I need to know about this war."

And like that, Remus was working both sides. "About... the Death Eaters," he said, half a question.

Fenrir actually laughed at that. "No, I know the Death Eaters, I know what they tell me," he said. "I know the Dark Lord. That's all I know of wizards and their war."

"Then..." Remus hated having to guess where to go next, it was like guessing which wire needed cutting to neutralise a time bomb. "I'll give what answers I can," he said, figuring that was just honest enough.

"The Death Eaters are proud, not that they don't have enough to be proud of, or a choice in the matter with their Father's methods -- " Fenrir didn't like thinking about the cold grip of the Dark Lord in his head, but he could still feel it. "There are some fighting, some Aurors. Scrimgeour. The _Longbottoms,_ Alecto nearly burst something whenever she mentioned them. But there are some she feared. Is there anyone but the Aurors?"

"The Magical Law Enforcement is split into other divisions. Patrol divisions are... well, they patrol, and are usually first respondents. Hit Wizards are... force, and Aurors generally handle the... ah. Larger crime," he said, though he knew that wasn't what Fenrir asked. But at the same time, he couldn't give away the secrets he'd been trusted to keep.

"Not what I meant," Fenrir said, bemused at least how Remus held back. "No need to hide what you know, Remus, in this case I won't punish your acting as a wizard. She mentioned others, outside of the Ministry, regular witches and wizards ... foolishly, I have to say, standing up to the Dark Lord. But you haven't heard anything of it?"

There was a need to hide what he knew. To protect them. He wasn't sure Fenrir could care one way or the other, but if Yaxley or Alecto heard about it.... There was really no such thing as being too careful. "It wouldn't surprise me if there was a group of citizens who did such a thing."

"Idiots," Fenrir scoffed. "They have no idea what they're dealing with. He made me kneel, Remus, he made me kneel in front of him and reached into my mind. I only mention in case I die -- you'll inherit that duty. No one envies you that."

Remus certainly didn't enjoy that thought. "Then you better not die," he replied dryly.

"I'm not dead yet and I don't plan on dying any time soon," Fenrir said, just as dry. "Does it make you squeamish, working for the Death Eaters?"

Squeamish wasn't the word Remus would have used if he had his pick of all the English language, but it would serve. "Yes."

"I thought it did. I know you better than you think, Remus. There's still too much of Alexander in you yet. We'll fix that." Fenrir leaned forward in his chair and looked directly at Remus. "You don't work for the Death Eaters. I work for the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord gives me numbers and strength, and once he's won, it's our turn. _That's_ when our work begins, you and me, and the rest of the unified pack."

Remus looked directly back at him, and saw that he believed it. Death Eaters were a means to his end. "I understand," he said calmly, and for the first time when he said that here in the pack, he felt like he did.

"You returned to us. I know you understand," Fenrir said, utterly sincere. "After all, you recognised where you belong. Soon enough, so will all the rest. My Father's plans, finally on their way to seeing light."

Not if they had anything to say about it. He almost felt sorry, but thought of the packs he had seen torn apart, people killed, watching them die on the floor. This wasn't something that they could allow to happen, he knew that, just as certain as he knew that the Death Eaters couldn't win their war. "Soon enough," he echoed.

"You're a good son, Remus. I couldn't have done any of this without you." Fenrir sat back. "Know that. Go on, go back to that bitch of Conor's -- don't get too attached, she's only alive to keep him in line."

And everyone knew it. "She won't be trouble," he repeated as he stood and went to the door.

"But if she is, she'll die. Don't get attached," Fenrir repeated in kind. "Go on."

The wolf reached for its Father as he made his departure, and he let it, without turning around to look at him. He left the room no less secure than when he'd entered, returning to look for Briony where he'd left her.

~*~

Frank bit back a yawn and took another drink of his coffee. With that in hand, he picked up his brand new case file that had been waiting for him when he arrived that morning. He began to scan the details as he walked back to his desk, but was stopped with a hand on his arm as he walked past the lift. "'Scuse me," the fair-haired young woman who stopped him said.

She looked familiar, but he was fairly sure that he hadn't seen her before. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yeah. Maybe," she said, twisting a piece of hair in her fingers. "Um, can I report a missing person here? If I'm not really sure they're missing?"

He was intrigued. And slightly confused. "What do you mean, aren't sure if they're missing?"

She twisted her strand of hair harder. "Erm, well, I'm a secretary in Magical Creatures, but I en't seen one of the guys there for ages."

"Okay," he said. His intuition was telling him this wasn't good news. "Come with me, just to my desk, Miss -- what's your name?"

"Fenwick. Nettie Fenwick."

Benjy's sister, then. That's why she'd looked familiar, she shared her brother's sandy hair and blue eyes. "Miss Fenwick," he said, seating her at his desk and hovering over her. He took one of the forms from his drawer and took out a quill. He kneeled beside the desk. "Well. Why don't you tell me what's going on."

Nettie eyed the direction they'd come from nervously, as if she were afraid that they'd been followed. "Well, em. I'm secretary at the front of the Department right, so I see people come in, and I usually say good morning to them and they'll say good morning back. I also get the owls if people owl in sick, but this is the third day I en't seen Elliot Pittiman and he en't owled in sick, either."

Frank's stomach immediately turned to ice and at the same time he could also feel his blood get pumping. With half a second of faltering, he began scribbling what she told him on the form. "So is there any reason other than that to believe that something may have happened?"

"Well, no. That's why I don't know if he's missing. But I owled yesterday around noon and there hasn't been any response. He's good about owling if he en't going to be in. And he might get past me one day, but not two or three," she insisted. 

He knew with that kind of evidence, it didn't exactly make a compelling case, at least not one that would rise to the top of Departmental priorities. "Any other family you know of that he might be in contact with?"

"Well. I think his mum's still alive, and his wife might have some family," she said slowly.

Fuck. Frank finished the form. "Please look that over and sign and date it if that is all correct and what you have told me is the truth," he rattled off, indicating the space for her to do so. As she did, he said, "I can't make any guarantees, we're desperately short-staffed... if you do hear anything else, please share. My name is Frank Longbottom." He exchanged the signed form for his card.

"I will," she said, pocketing it after looking at it. "Ta, Auror Longbottom."

"Good day, and thank you," he nodded, indicating to her the direction of the lifts. As she left, he tried not to let his guilt overwhelm him. There could be a simple explanation. He and Alice had taken Marlene to Pittiman’s house and put up every ward they could think of. It would have taken a very patient person to break through all of those, and it didn't mean anything. Maybe he left the country of his own accord. It wasn't precisely uncommon.

He filed the missing persons report before making a beeline for Alice's desk. He was relieved only slightly when he saw that she was there. "What are you doing this morning?" he asked urgently.

Alice had never quite got rid of the headache that Neville had managed to give her this morning and it was only getting worse. "Frank, I love you, but I have two separate leads to follow today not to mention that we have to check in with Susanna King later, and Merlin knows I have to be mentally prepared for that, what do you need?"

"Today is the third day that Elliot Pittiman has not come to work."

She felt the colour leave her face. "Oh dear."

Frank nodded. "Yes," he said simply. "I was just speaking with Benjy's sister, she's a secretary in Magical Creatures, she's the one who filed the report. We have to deal with this, Alice."

Alice grabbed her cloak. "My leads can wait, let's go."

He nodded again and wordlessly let her move past him, leading their way out of the Department. The lifts seemed to move at a painfully slow pace, both coming to them and on the way back to the Atrium. They Apparated out without another word to each other and just as Frank feared, he was able to make it practically all the way to the front door. "They ripped a hole right in the wards."

Alice stared at the house and bit her lip after a moment, only then steeling herself to enter. "Well, no Dark Mark," she said. "Unsurprising, I suppose. Shall we go inside, then?"

"Yes." Frank drew his wand and tried the doorknob. Unsurprisingly, and chillingly, it opened. The door opened to a house that was far too quiet for one that held three children. There was nothing in the foyer, except for the cloak rack, knocked over. "If they didn't want Aurors making a connection, they wouldn't leave the Mark."

"And this isn't about blood," Alice said quietly, hesitant to disturb the heavy silence. She exhaled and looked around. "I'll take the second floor?"

"All right," he said, moving for the front room where Pittiman had showed them all the information they'd gotten from him. "Be careful," he warned her out of habit.

"Of course, dear," she said and kissed him on the cheek as she always did, and hurried up the stairs.

He moved into the front room, and even though he didn't see anyone in there (the end table was turned over, cushions were torn off the couch, and the pictures on one wall were askew), called out. "Mr. Pittiman, it's Frank Longbottom. If you can hear me, please try to respond." The only answer was the eerie quiet, and the creak of Alice's feet on the staircase.

At the first sight of what most certainly was blood in the littlest boy's bedroom, Alice began to hurriedly check each room upstairs, the signs of what had occurred all falling into place. She ran down the stairs, nearly falling and catching herself on the railing, her face flushed as she finally called, "Frank!"

As soon as he heard her call, Frank started from the kitchen back to the stairs. "What did you find?" he asked, taking them up two at a time.

"Blood, signs of a struggle," she said, as professional as she could be. "There’s -- Frank, just come and look."

Frank went ahead of her up the stairs, and it was all there, as she said. He never thought he could be surprised at an amount of blood again, but found that a difficult oath to keep. All of the children's bedrooms were bloody and torn, and he stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom. "... Bodies," he completed Alice's list.

Alice forced her hand down from its place at her mouth and went instantly to go identify the shredded body ... of Elliot Pittiman. "It's him," she said upon finding her voice. She stepped back, briefly stung with grief and guilt. This was their fault. "It's Pittiman."

"And his wife." Or at least the hair on the woman in the bed matched that of the woman in the photographs downstairs. There wasn't really a face left to identify, per se. He rubbed a hand over his face, and stopped. "Where are the children?"

She had thought about that, back before she'd seen the mangled bodies. "I didn't see them. They aren't in their rooms. I'm guessing they weren't downstairs..."

This was going from bad to disastrous in a very short period of time. "I'm going to look outside," he announced and turned back around and going down the stairs. There was no blood on the stairs, which meant no one bleeding had come that way. Alice nodded, took a deep breath, and began to survey the scene with the eye of an Auror.

Frank checked the downstairs rooms once more before he moved outside, looking for any place as far as the property extended where small children could have been buried. He looked for disturbed ground and checked for concealment charms. Though he somehow doubted if they'd left the parents to rot in their bedroom, they would be so careful with the children, he still hoped, prayed to find something, _anything._ The longer his search went on, the more frustrated he became as he tried not to sink into the guilt trap that had laid itself at his feet. 

"If the Death Eaters killed them and buried them somewhere here then they've certainly hid it well," Frank fumed to Alice when he returned to the house. "There's no blood on the staircase, nobody got taken that way. They probably Apparated them right out if they did anything." _Stupid Aurors, thinking they could outclever an army of Death Eaters and their favourite deadly weapon,_ he scolded himself.

Alice nodded silently and swallowed before she spoke. "Basic werewolf attack, two dead, three missing, presumed dead," she said flatly, and looked away, at the bodies, before leaving the room. "We have a report to write."

Frank set his jaw, and examined the scene one more time. Something was nagging at him, and the wheels in his brain were turning. "I think we should go see Susanna first. Now."

Alice paused, because that could only mean one thing. "Now? You don't think..."

"I think if they knew about Pittiman and could get to him and his family, then they _definitely_ knew about Susanna and could get to her," he answered.

It was obviously a bad day if going to see Susanna King alive and talking was looking like the bright spot in it. Alice nodded. "You're right."

He took her outside, if only in order to shut the door again. "I'll see you there," he spoke quickly.

Alice Disapparated as soon as he finished speaking, outside of the house that Susanna King had moved into upon becoming a compliant witness. It was unlit, but only visibly, and she hoped against hope that Susanna was being particularly clever with her charms.

Frank was growing to hate being right. He hoped he wasn't right this time. The door was locked, at least, and he charmed the locks to open. "Miss King?" he called after a second thought and waited for a response. He also wouldn't put it past the Death Eaters to lay a trap.

After a long moment of silence, though, Alice glanced around what little they could see without entering. "There's a light on in the sitting room," she said to Frank.

"Yes," he said, and moved into the house to the sitting room, wand at the ready.

She followed, only to see Miss King just sitting there in a chair facing away from them. "Miss King," she called, a bit sternly. "You had us worried." She kept her wand at the ready, though.

The sinking feeling continued. " _Miss King,_ " he called out, moving fluidly around the chair. He lowered his wand as he saw the dead look in her eyes, and her blank countenance said all that needed to be said. "Damnit."

Alice stopped and stared, then gave a bleak laugh. "Still alive, no longer an informant," she said, "of course, they control the dementors, it's genius." She threw her hands up in the air. "What next, I ask you."

"I don't know, and I could live the rest of my life without finding out. Add an owl to St. Mungo's to our 'To Do' list," he said dryly. Children missing, their best witness dead and their informant good as, it was easily the worst day of his career.

"We should get back," Alice said softly, as though not to disturb Miss King, who was still staring blankly ahead, her chest evenly rising and falling. Oh, Alice just wanted to get back to paper trails.

He nodded, and left without another word, waiting for Alice to catch up outside. He'd never felt so utterly defeated in his life.


	18. As Kill A King

_"Regicide comes easier to those who have nothing than those who have little."_ French Wizarding Proverb.

_March 1981_  
This day was especially inauspicious, and Owen quite frankly couldn't wait for it to be over. He once again donned the robes he wore when he needed to be taken seriously, but instead of going for an appointment, this time it would take place on his ground, in the Den. Unfortunately, he was going to be meeting with Maldwyn Twiddle. He briefly wondered not only what he wanted, but why he hadn't opted for more neutral ground.

Twiddle was not in the mood to care either way. Pittiman was dead, his wife was as well and all three of their children were missing. Since it had occurred on the full moon, everyone had an idea of who to blame. On top of it all, pressure was being applied to him from all sides to get the problem under control and do it _now._ Normally, he would have sent Pittman to parlay with Curenton, but he was dead and in no condition to be doing much of anything, and he supposed he could have sent their little secretary but even he wasn't so cruel as to send the girl to deal with someone as stubborn as Owen was. 

He had a headache already. 

Downing a vial of potion for the pounding in his skull, he closed the door to his office and took the lift down to the Atrium, putting off Disapparation as long as possible until he had to Disapparate to the street in Swansea that wizards kept to. The Den was easy enough to spot -- there was no sign, but with a broken front window just the right size for a thrown rock, they didn't really need one. He let himself in the front door -- some things just did not change, it seemed.

Owen was waiting in his office -- near the front door, just as it had been in the old place -- and Twiddle stood in the doorway. For a moment the men just looked at each other. Sizing each other up, maybe, as it had been some time since they'd traded words in person. "Good morning, Mr. Twiddle," Owen finally said, his tone only hinting at the irony of the statement; it wasn't a good morning at all. 

He did not answer, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation. "Is that front door ever locked?" he asked, foregoing niceties altogether.

"Only when we want to keep someone out," he answered with a tinge of the smirk.

Twiddle hated that smirk. So very much. "What about keeping someone in?"

"I assume that was your roundabout way of asking if we lock doors on the full moons, and yes, we do," Owen said blithely. "Now why did you actually ask to speak with me?"

He briefly wondered if Owen would just take off his head right off when he asked what he was being pressed to ask. Granted, with this headache, decapitation would be a favour. "There's been a rise in werewolf attacks, seemingly planned. The Ministry is being pressed to… do certain things, use certain things at their disposal."

"Your disposal," Owen corrected him mildly, leaning back in his chair. "Keep going."

He ignored it. "I am supposed to approach you to ask that you to start administering the Wolfsbane potion to the… people you have here."

For a moment Owen stared at him blankly, and then he snorted out a laugh. "I'm presuming that this was a formality and you knew that I was going to tell you no, so here it is," he said. "No."

"I did think that," he admitted, and nobody in their right mind would expect anything else. "But I also thought that you could see sense."

"I'm not going to feed poison to the people who have put their trust in me. That's why Brighid cooks," he quipped. "It's a no, Twiddle."

"Not even to possibly save lives? You of all people should be behind us on this," he shot back.

"Didn't take you long, did it," he replied frostily. "No, I am not going to listen to the Ministry's fear-mongering and blindly follow it when I know that there is only one man -- one awful, vengeful man, yes -- but he is the only one responsible for this."

"Oh yes, the elusive Fenrir Greyback." Twiddle's tone was reserved with a derisive edge. 

"Yes," he replied. "So, no, Mr. Twiddle, I am not going to allow you or the hospital to forcibly distribute that junk to unwilling participants. If you want to find volunteers, educate them about the risks to drinking the poison, and admit that you basically have no idea as to what possible long-term effects are, then by all means -- "

"I don't have the _time._ " He was having a difficult time not coming off annoyed when he so very obviously was, but as it turned out the shortest road to his perceived solution was also the most difficult. 

"You also don't have the manpower or the funding."

"Especially now that one-third of my division is actually dead," he spat. "I came looking for help and I'm really confused as to why you're not… _helping._ " 

"Because I don't believe that drugging part of them -- a part of them that they can control and be at peace with, by the way -- is helping. I don't think we should be so quick to medicate if it's unnecessary." Owen's speech was becoming more heated, but he kept it controlled. 

"Given their part in the current political situation -- "

"They don't _have_ a part in the current political situation, we've robbed them of that -- "

" -- they're lucky that we're willing to help at all," he finished. 

"Wow. You went there," Owen said after a moment of silence.

Twiddle stood; he needed to pace. "I just… Belby was your friend -- "

"Is my friend," he broke in calmly.

"Was, is, whatever. He is your friend, and he developed the potion, how can you doubt his motives?" He spotted the picture on the office wall. The little blonde girl who jumped for the miniature Quaffle that her older, taller brother held just out of her reach as he laughed. "When you look at that, how can you even -- "

"I don't doubt his motives," Owen cut him off. "Damocles has always wanted to know the how and the why of things, and build his own. He's never been overly concerned with what it could do in the wrong hands, he's a bit of a Frankenstein in that way… But he doesn't think about what the wrong uses are, doesn't believe he can take a stand on the ethical ways of things."

Twiddle couldn't take his eyes off the photograph just yet as Erin Curenton made one more leap for the Quaffle. "I have three girls, and if it had been any of them I don't know that I would have been able to stop myself."

Maybe that was the difference between the two of them. Owen had made a decision while Jeremy was still lying unconscious in the hospital to concentrate and focus his energies on what he had left, and Twiddle would claim to look for vengeance. Maybe he was right; it seemed like Fenrir had just continued to take things from him as he scrambled to salvage them. "I had one, she's dead, and nothing will bring her back." He paused. "Not even baying for the blood of people who had nothing to do with it."

"Wouldn't stop me," he answered with a shrug. "Help us, or don't. One day it's going to become such a problem that you and I won't be the only ones paying attention to what happens with the werewolves."

"We aren't the only ones who pay attention," he said exasperatedly. "You have an entire Department around you, MLE, the people in this house care. The people they know out there care."

"They might say something," he retorted dryly.

"Why say something if nobody's listening? Wizards have pushed them so far away that we're… we're _irrelevant,_ really." There weren't really words to convey how little regard most werewolves he'd met had for the Ministry -- and he'd been meeting a lot more of them lately since Jeremy had been bringing them by handfuls. They had their own laws, their own system, and were having their own war. "We don't have anything here for you. You're not going to dose them with that rubbish, and none of us are hiding Fenrir Greyback in our pockets. So go."

Twiddle shrugged. It was no less than he'd expected and neither of them was bleeding which was an improvement over their last contact. "The window in your front room's been broken."

"We were busy this morning and Brighid wanted the windows open anyway," Owen remarked dismissively, indicated Twiddle's presence was no longer welcome.

Again, Twiddle shrugged. "Suit yourself," he answered and let himself out by the front door.

~*~

_April 1981_  
Jeremy had a busy night ahead of him, even after he addressed the unnameds about the plans, including parts of the one he meant to present later to the main members of the alliance he had going. He arrived first in the upstairs room Remus had due to his rank, and used the free time reconsidering his plans once more. These meetings were rare, this being the second of its kind, and he had to put this in the right words or it would get shot down immediately. This was important. And all, of course, thanks to Julia.

Satisfied that Jeremy had not been caught and there had been no notice of where he'd gone to, Skylar followed minutes later, making sure to leave Gemma with Rory. For whose benefit and protection, she wasn’t sure, but as long as they were both in one piece when she came back it would be fine. She took the stairs quickly and quietly, and slipped in the door to Remus's room, closing it slowly again behind her. "Hey, saboteur man," she greeted him.

He sat up, rolled up his parchment, and sent her a wry smile. "Saboteur man. I like it," he said. "Hey, Sky. How are things? Haven't talked to you in a bit."

"Yeah, it's been awhile," she agreed with a small smile. "Things have been... all right," she said slowly. "All things considered... all right."

"'All right' is more than anyone can ask for in the unified pack," he said, gesturing for her to take a seat. "Your pack's doing a good job of staying under the radar."

"What is left of us. It's what Ben trained us for." She immediately covered the pang she felt at missing Ben with a crooked smirk. "Staying in the woodwork and staying together, that sort of thing. Only way we're going to be able to get anywhere, right?" she added brightly.

He nodded and considered that. "Staying in the woodwork and stepping out at the appropriate moments," he answered.

"The only way to do it," she said cheerfully. "How are you? You've been in better spirits since you came back this time."

Jeremy hesitated to say it. "I have an idea," he said. "And ... I'm going to get married."

Skylar's eyebrows immediately shot up. "Really," she finally said. "I mean, I don't mean that like it sounds. That's all... good news."

Jeremy leaned against the wall. "Really," he said, shoving the parchment in his pocket. "I proposed the last time I went there, and it's going to be a fight, but... she's willing to wait for me while I'm here." He shrugged.

"There are things worth waiting for," she said, smiling back encouragingly at him. Jeremy, married. Skylar really hoped that she could be there to see the look on Ben's face when he heard. She stopped, however, when she heard voices outside and relaxed as she recognized Briony's voice.

Briony pulled Remus in to the room behind her, and eyed Skylar and Jeremy. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," Jeremy greeted, straightening where he sat and charming the door shut. "Are the charms still up?" he asked Remus.

Remus already had his wand in his hand, checking them for holes and tampering. He felt that the likelihood of that was significantly less, now that Alecto Carrow was no longer in the house, but he wasn't willing to take chances. "Yes," he said, once he was sure. "And they'll hold, no worries."

As though having the first on their side wasn't good enough, he was also a more capable wizard than Jeremy could ever hope to be. Too lucky, almost. "Great. So... the meeting is in session, I suppose," he said, gesturing widely. "And the floor is open. Anything to report?"

There was a moment as they each waited to see if one of the other three was going to say something. Briony finally spoke first. "Fenrir sent Conor to another pack, somewhere in Northern Ireland. It's... small, maybe ten people at the most. They've just been hiding away -- not that I can blame them. I wouldn't be surprised if they were here by next week."

"Fuck," Jeremy said, finding no other word to accurately describe his irritation. "Fuck, well, it'll be a good distraction. Good. Remus?"

"Well." He cast a glance at Briony. "Fenrir has said that he's prepared to take them forcefully, although that's been backburner until recently. Yaxley came again over the full moon and -- "

"Are those the new children?" Skylar interrupted to ask. Remus nodded.

"New children?" Jeremy never really spoke to the children, not about to infringe on Wesley's territory.

"I don't know -- there's two boys and a girl, Gemma's been talking to the oldest boy," Skylar started.

"They're the children of Elliot Pittiman," Remus said, preparing to divulge. "He was aiding the Death Eaters with concealing the pack from within the Ministry because they threatened his family. But he gave Aurors information, recently -- I don't know what kind of information, exactly -- but obviously they felt it necessary to be rid of him. Fenrir took the children." 

"Elliot Pittiman," Jeremy repeated. The name sounded familiar, but if so, it had to've been some time ago, no one from a pack, no one from the Den, until he realised. "The Charmsworker. The one who built the tracking charms." He remembered the terror in Pittiman's eyes when he'd let the wolf stare him down, and now... "What happened to him?" he asked.

"Nothing good," Briony guessed.

"Well. The Death Eaters are certainly not keen on leaving the traitorous amongst their ranks alive," Remus conceded delicately. "Both him and his wife, I'm afraid."

Jeremy had seen enough people die. He could handle this. "All right then," he said. He was fine. "Sky, anything to share?"

Skylar made a note to ply Gemma for any information she might have gotten out of the three children who only seemed to speak amongst themselves and never to anyone else. "Nothing now," she said.

"Great," Jeremy said with cheer. "Because I was given an idea and had some time to refine it since I was back, and now I'm telling you all the new plan of action." He paused to find some better phrase, but it was best just to say it. "We're going to try to kill Fenrir."

There was a moment of stunned, very surreal silence where the other three weren't sure that they'd heard Jeremy correctly. All three stared at him for a long moment that only seemed to grow longer. Skylar cocked her head at him, and said, "Seriously?"

"Right! Kill Fenrir. Why didn't we think of that before," Briony added with a measure of black humour. Remus was the only one who didn't say anything, merely continued to regard Jeremy with a thoughtful expression.

Jeremy gave them his best mad saboteur grin. "If you think about it, it's exactly what we need. Any good rebellion will strike first at the supplies and the lieutenants and stir up trouble, but inevitably they go for the heart of the whole thing, and the heart of the unified pack is Fenrir Greyback. If the 'rebellion' goes after Fenrir," he concluded, finger quotes and all, "and he crushes the 'rebellion,' he will have nothing to fear at all."

The pieces fell into place in Remus's head like it was a flash of lightning. "It's a diversion," he said.

" _The_ diversion," Jeremy said, with a firm nod. "After that, so long as we're quiet, we'll be able to do anything we want."

Skylar nodded slowly, understanding. Briony was the one to speak up. "I get it," she said. "But who's taking the fall for this? For the rebellion to be crushed, someone is probably going to have to... you know." Even though she should have been used to it, she couldn't make herself say it.

"Be crushed?" Jeremy supplied, almost with amusement. "I didn't bring it up until I knew who. But now I know."

At this point, she was convinced he was doing it for the dramatics. "Who," she repeated.

Jeremy relished the moment, his genius moment. "Laurel."

For the second time, a shocked silence fell over them. Remus's wolf squirmed at that, but he firmly ignored it. "Laurel," he repeated.

"This rebellion," Jeremy said, moving to sit forward on his knees now, "has come from the unnameds. They've known this all along, since I joined the pack, since I started working against Fenrir, until I stopped -- but it's always been the unnameds. Look at who Fenrir listens to – Remus, Conor, Wesley, Alecto, chosen because they’re named, male, or just the preferred lover -- but Laurel, the female unnamed, his real first -- she was left behind. Why wouldn't she turn against him? And isn't she the unnamed with the most power in this pack, the one with the easiest access to Fenrir's throat, the one who is _very_ fond of knives?"

They all considered it, and Skylar seemed to be the first to come to the same conclusion Jeremy had. "Well. He's not wrong," she insisted to them.

"No," Remus agreed.

"Not wrong," Briony echoed, and she looked between all of them. "I -- look, I'm not saying you _are_ wrong, Jeremy, but only use her if you're sure it can be made to look convincing. Fenrir and Laurel have been with each other for... a _very_ long time. Since before Conor brought me -- there's no guarantee he wouldn't just take her word," she said.

Jeremy stared at the floor for a moment, but concentrating, not despondent -- he took out his parchment, quill and ink and began to scribble down what Laurel had going for her and what she didn't. _Obedience. Years of service._ It wasn't looking good. _Clear resentment of Remus._

He looked up after a moment. "She hates the ranked nameds," he said. "It's obvious. She and Wesley have their... camaraderie, but Fenrir still trusts Wesley with more, and -- and Laurel hates you, Remus, we all know that. All we need is for Laurel to act suspiciously and for Fenrir to distance himself from her -- " He stopped. "If they both believed that Alecto was coming back..."

"That could clinch it." Remus looked at Briony, who looked back. They'd both been around the pack long enough to know how Laurel was thrown off balance in when Alecto Carrow was around. "If he doesn't know what she gets up to, then it can create enough doubt for him to not trust her over everything else. We exploit that crack."

"The evidence as it is would be is awfully damning," Skylar added gently.

"I know," Briony cut in. "I was just saying, that we're going to be working against a lot of years and a very, _very_ close relationship, named or no. It can work, it just needs to be accounted for."

"This isn't you and Conor, Briony," Jeremy felt the need to add. "He uses her and he throws her away. Everyone sees it. You all know it."

She managed to keep herself from pulling a face, and decided to drop it, her point across successfully. "How do you see events transpiring, then?" she asked.

He tried to line the events up in his head. "We plant the seeds. The next time Yaxley comes back, the day after, we hint that he suggested Alecto would be coming back. Soon after, Remus tells Wesley that he thinks Laurel's spending too much time with the unnameds. We make sure Fenrir hears the rumours -- both that Laurel is acting strangely and that Alecto might be returning."

Jeremy ran his hand into his hair. "And I'll talk to Laurel. I'll get her agitated. I know how to push her buttons. And once she's agitated and Fenrir suspects her, we wait a day, then Remus or I will use stealth charms, sneak into their bedroom, and plant a knife on Laurel while they're in bed together."

Briony considered it, and remembered what Skylar had said to her months ago. They were not accounting for failure. There was no Plan B. "Okay," she said.

"Bri?" Skylar glanced at her. The other girl's face was placid, no hint of the thoughts that were undoubtedly racing through her head crossed her features. 

"No, nothing," she said, and looked at Jeremy. "It'll work." There was no other choice.

"That's more like it," Jeremy said, his expression set and determined as he drew a bold line across the parchment to mark off the plan as it stood. "If this works, we'll be untouchable. We'll be able to save the unnameds, and then even the nameds, and when Fenrir finally looks away from his own vain ideal he'll look at his _unified pack_ and realise that we're all long gone."

"Nameds will be harder," was Briony's immediate reaction.

"Let's get this out of the way first," Remus suggested pragmatically.

Jeremy's breath caught in his throat and he exhaled sharply, swallowing before he could speak. It would work. It had to work. "The nameds will have their chance." He had some work to do, some traveling, some convincing. "We'll wait for Yaxley. I have to leave tomorrow, he probably won't go back soon. Make sure someone takes care of the Pittiman kids." He got to his feet and pocketed his parchment after protecting it with the necessary charms.

"I'll try and talk to them -- at the very least make sure Gemma keeps talking to them," Skylar said, standing and dusting herself off.

Jeremy tried to keep a grip on reality, but the possibilities were overwhelming. No. He was going back into serfdom, he had to look the part. He shook it off. "Remus. You have this handled?" He tried to not let his doubt show.

His doubt was hidden, but barely. Not that Remus could exactly blame him. "It is good as done," he said calmly, in control and making sure Jeremy saw his resolve.

"Great," Jeremy said, taking the moment to consider the wolf -- it was just as pleased with the situation as he was -- and reach out to all the named wolves who would appreciate the gesture. "We're doing something good," he said. "I'll see you all. At some point."

Skylar happily touched back. "I'll go first," she announced. "Later, kids -- saboteur man," she added to Jeremy with a wink before making sure the hallway was clear and slipping out of the door.

Briony looked back at Jeremy for a moment. "Saboteur man?" she asked with a rare hint of amusement.

Jeremy sent her an unabashed grin. "Catchy, isn't it?"

"Oh, very much so," she agreed dryly. 

"We'll have business cards printed," Remus echoed the tone.

"Yeah, yeah." Jeremy scoffed and gave them a brief wave before Disapparating.

Briony jumped and released her breath. "I hate it when he does that."

Remus smiled briefly. "Just a little Apparation," he said, although realised somewhat awkwardly that chances were she didn't know how. "Well. If the hall is clear... I'll see you."

He was a nervous man. She touched wolves briefly, and tried not to jump at how his latched on, backing away mentally. It was like when she had first met Jeremy. Pack-starved. "Even if it weren't, Remus, I doubt anyone would think anything of a girl leaving the room of the beloved first and heir of the Unified Pack," she teased him with the same hint of amusement she had spoken to Jeremy with.

His face flushed a brilliant scarlet, fairly sure that they would be thinking something. "Good night, Briony," he said quickly.

She said nothing as she opened the door to leave, just gave a quiet laugh and closed the door behind her.

~*~

Night was falling over the safe house of Hati and her ragtag pack, and every time that it did, Hati wondered if it would be the last she would see as the head of her sanctuary. The situation was looking particularly grim, with Fenrir Greyback and his legion of the unified pack being virtually uncontested with every move they'd made, and now her pack was the only one with strength and wands enough to stand against him. That could mean they were safe. But their power could also damn them to the fate of the Den and Conor's pack.

Hati turned away from the second-floor window to look to Ben Skoll once again. "I meant to talk," she admitted, "but I'm not sure there's much that has to be said. There's me. There's Curenton. There's Fenrir."

Ben had a great deal of respect for Hati, and in the months since he and Keith had taken refuge with her pack along with Patick and Jane, it had developed into like as well. He often checked himself, though, since affection was the trap that he had laid for himself the first time. "There probably isn't all that much, I agree. Everyone else says plenty."

Hati leaned against the wall, relaxed despite her troubles, the wolf calm and searching out its children as always, for comfort. "He's not even sent a single envoy to me, you know. Maybe he's forgotten about me? I am just a woman, after all," she said, utterly sarcastic.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he answered. "There's simply no point in sending an envoy to you, Hati. You’re not going fold like a cheap tent and give up your pack, and you have the strength to withstand Fenrir. Sending an envoy would be a bad move, at best." He paused. "Besides, he's using Conor for the job, and I should think he'd be hard pressed to find someone else he could send with Conor's sense that he could manipulate quite so effectively."

She couldn't hide a touch of amusement either. "That, and I would hardly allow Conor to return that snakepit without a very good reason. He's too good to be wasted on Fenrir's delusion of grandeur." She looked down at her feet. "I can't help but think this is a failure on our part, Ben. Had we taken Fenrir seriously earlier... and now no pack dares question, they just pick up and join."

"This can't be laid at anyone's feet, Hati," he reassured her. "No one could have foreseen what this was going to become. It went from bad to worse in a very bad set of circumstances."

Hati nodded and tucked her hands behind her back, pacing. "They still don't care. It's not very comforting, Ben, that the only wizards who care about the outcome of this are either living in this house, the Curentons, or the Death Eaters. You would think that those... attacks of Fenrir's might wake them up. But all they do is fear the lot of us more. It's a bad set of circumstances, all right. We're on our own."

"They don't realize that Fenrir is the exception rather than the rule," he said. "They will only believe what they see."

She started to answer, but heard the unmistakable sound of trainers on the steep stairs to the second floor and simply said, "Well, when we win, they'll see an entirely different side of werewolves. What is it, David?" she asked before her younger son even opened his mouth.

David was unfazed. Mam was psychic, observant, whatever you wanted to call it. "Adam and I checked everything and everyone, we're safe for now, and Da said that dinner'll be ready by the time you're finished hashing all the politics out here so come downstairs."

"Finished? With politics? That'll be the day," Ben replied, a grin on his face.

"We'll be finished hashing out politics when you're finished digging out my grave," Hati said with a grim sort of smirk.

David shook his head. "Not funny," he said, half in warning, mostly because it was likely to be true.

Ben glanced at Hati. "Choose better jokes," he advised her teasingly.

Hati waved David away. "We'll be down for dinner, I promise. I do have one question," she said to Ben. She pulled up a chair to sit opposite him. "Jokes aside. Is there merit in the idea of contacting the Ministry? You know his eventual intent, and it is no happy family."

He nodded, and hesitated. "The Ministry... from what I can see is spread thin at this point and honestly I find it unlikely that they would do something until they could see the danger for certain. Even if not, the Death Eaters would have certainly made sure they were covering their tracks."

She smiled, perhaps inappropriately. "It's us versus them, then," she said. "I always thought it would come down to this, if anyone was mad enough to do this. I’m the only one of us with capable wands readily on hand, excepting Jane and Conor's pack, of course."

"Jane's acquitted herself wonderfully," Ben said. He'd had doubts when she first came to his pack, but she had flourished and proven to be quite powerful, if not downright nervy at times. "An ally definitely worth having."

"I only wish we had Conor and his first," Hati said, then stood. "But perhaps we'll soon see more of Conor. I can't wait."

"Perhaps," he echoed uncertainly, and indicated for her to lead the way downstairs with an 'after you' motion.

Down the narrow stairs the pack was waiting for both of them, and Hati sent Keith a smile once they entered the sitting room. "Have you seen Edward?" she asked him, though her first was more likely than not with her sons.

Keith glanced up from the newest edition of _The Daily Prophet_ that he'd found in the house. "Oh, um. He and Adam just left to find Jane for dinner," he said.

"Was she missing?" Ben broke in, suddenly perturbed.

"Well. Not really, I guess, she just... wasn't _here,_ " he replied back, motioning to show a general vicinity.

Hati didn't feel right about this, and glanced at Ben to see if he agreed with her assessment. Ben caught the look out of the corner of his eye and asked Keith, "When did you last see her?"

"I guess it was less than an hour ago," he said, after considering it. "When Adam and David went out, she went out to check too."

Hati didn't think twice before taking out her wand and Summoning her hooded cloak. "I'm going out there," she said.

"No need," Ben said, catching a glance of four people and two lit wands walking towards the house in the dusk. He moved to the window in hopes of catching a better look, although he definitely recognized the silhouettes of Adam and Edward and could deduce one of the remaining had to be Jane. "They have someone," he announced.

Hati returned her cloak to the rack and waited, tense, for the quartet to arrive in the house. It was too much to hope that it was just her two sons, her first, and Jane making trouble again. She reached out with the wolf to Edward's as he entered the house before she even hurried to the door and spoke. _Tell me._ "What's going on?"

As always Edward reacted as soon as she pressed him. "An intruder, Jane found him," he said, not without amusement at the understatement.

"Found him, trussed him up, and gagged him like a chicken," Adam added with an unapologetic grin, guiding their prisoner in by one arm. "We had to convince her to allow him some dignity and walk to the house instead of Levitated behind."

"He was near the trees," Jane said, following behind. She took his wand from her pocket, which she'd picked up after disarming him. "He had this, I wasn't taking chances."

"I should say you weren't." Adam laughed, and she pulled a face back at him. "Sitting room?" he asked his mother.

"Sitting room," Hati said with a nod, and eyed the prisoner before leading the way.

Edward considered the trussed-up prisoner, who was watching them all rather carefully, and commented to Adam with a gesture towards Jane, "Good thing we're on her side."

"She's disarming me more often than not these days, I'm certainly not going to be the first one to piss her off," he answered, leading the prisoner by the arm again. "She didn't even _use_ her Bat Bogey Hex."

"Didn't need to," Jane responded only a little smugly, nudging Edward in the ribs to slip into the room in front of him.

Ben and Keith were wearing near identical expressions of mixed shock and amusement as Adam escorted their captive and sat him in a chair. Ben waited until Jane had removed the _Silencio_ with a wave of her wand before asking with a little grin, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well I'm glad to see you lot are prepared if nothing else," Jeremy said after a moment of utter embarrassment, "but you can take the netting hex off, I'm hardly Fenrir Greyback's best mate."

Hati couldn't relax at the idea of an intruder, even if it was one known by Ben Skoll's pack. "Who is this?" she demanded in her fiercest pack leader tone.

Ben's grin immediately widened. He touched Jeremy's understandably annoyed wolf with his briefly in greeting in what was hopefully a calming manner. "Hati, this is an honoured friend of my pack, Jeremy Curenton. A nosy git sometimes, but no friend of Fenrir’s," he started teasingly. "Jeremy, this is Hati, as I'm sure you've gathered."

Jeremy sent Ben a grateful glance and returned the gesture with the wolf, then bowed his head in a respectful nod to Hati. "It's an honour, very much an honour. I would shake your hand or might dare kiss it if I was able," he added.

"Curenton," Hati repeated, then approached the boy to inspect him. "You _are_ almost the spitting image of Owen Curenton, aren't you. I don't suppose you're here on behalf of the Den, then? Owen should know well that my werewolves are hardly interested in his sanctuary, Pembrokeshire or Swansea."

Jeremy actually began to laugh, but when Hati's expression tightened, he said, "No. I'm here to enlist your help. I've come from Fenrir's unified pack, and -- "

"I thought you said that Fenrir would send an envoy with common sense in the place of Conor, Ben," Hati said loudly over the little Jeremy continued with. "But -- "

"I'm here from those who are sabotaging the unified pack," Jeremy shouted. "We're going to beat him and we need your help!"

Ben gave Hati a half-pleading look to bear with them. "Jane, go ahead and take off the hex. He won't be trouble."

Jane startled, and looked at Ben and back at Jeremy guiltily with her cheeks immediately going pink. "Oh, um, right. Sorry," she hurriedly apologised to Jeremy, removing the hex and returning his wand as Adam, Edward, and Keith began to laugh uproariously. 

Ben waited for their laughter to die down before he spoke to Jeremy again. "You're actually doing it."

Jeremy wiped the blood from his nose and tried to regain his dignity. "I'm doing it," he said. "I have Conor, Briony, Fenrir's first, Skylar, Melinda -- I have countless nameds and unnameds from within Fenrir's pack who are working with me to take down the unified pack. We have a plan and we need you."

"Rory?" Keith asked when he could no longer contain the question, and qualified it when heads turned towards him. "I know this is important," he added immediately, humble as anything, "but is he there?"

Jeremy was startled by the interjection, but considered the question. "Rory, Gemma's friend? Yeah, he's there. He's... well, Gemma keeps him out of trouble. But he's there. And Sky is doing great," he added to Ben. "She's invaluable, she's a credit to your pack."

Ben turned his attention from Keith at that point -- he literally saw the weight lift from Keith's shoulders; he knew that worry over Rory had drained a lot of time and energy from his son. "Yeah, she's worth twice her weight in Galleons like that," he told Jeremy. "She's bloody glue is what she is."

Jeremy looked over at the witch who'd bound him, and dared ask. "Are you Jane?"

Jane glanced back at him through her fringe, extremely contrite. "Yes."

"Conor and Briony are fine," he said. "Melinda is as well; she's left the unified pack and is helping the refugees from the unified pack at the Den. Conor's pack is safe. I thought you might want to know."

She released the breath she didn't know that she'd been holding, and nodded. "Thanks," she said quietly.

"Any other questions for him?" Hati asked, staring around the room. He seemed widely trusted, and a Curenton was unlikely to fall into the mindset of the Greyback pack, but she was still wary. "I want to know about this plan."

Nobody seemed willing to deprive Hati of information in her own house. "I'll go tell dad to keep it warm, this might take you awhile," Adam announced, backing out of the room. 

"Go ahead then, Jeremy," Ben prompted.

Well, Hati was more formidable than Jeremy ever could have predicted. It was both a good thing and a very dangerous thing, and he had to think quickly and well all at once before her apparent impatience flared up again. "We have convinced Fenrir that a rebellion exists within his pack," he said slowly. "We let him crush said decoy rebellion every once in a while. This is our diversion, so we can move unnameds out of the unified pack to the Den. They’re the majority in the unified pack, no one pays attention, so we can cut down his numbers by moving them out in small groups. 

"Once his numbers are low enough and he's just got ranked names and really loyal unnameds, we'll have the highest ranked nameds urge Fenrir to war against you. That's when they'll be able to turn against him without the Death Eaters, Wesley, or Fenrir himself killing them. That'll be the end of the unified pack," he finished. "With your power and our own -- we have two wands, you have ... at least four, and we have more than enough werewolves to fight -- we can win. I promise you that. I swear on my life."

Ben listened and contemplated the plan as Jeremy continued to speak. It was a plan that had certainly come a long way from "ending his father's reign." Instead of speaking, he scratched his jaw and glanced at Hati, waiting for her reaction first.

Hati tilted her head to the side as she considered his words, then glanced around to see the general reaction; surprise, scepticism, disbelief, acceptance. She turned back to the young Curenton and said, "You want to use my pack as another of your diversions, is that it?"

"Not at all," Jeremy said the instant she finished speaking, quick to explain. "I -- we want you as an ally, Hati, we all want the one thing. Fenrir's advantage is his wands and his numbers, and once he's outnumbered in wands and his numbers have turned against him, he'll be powerless."

It sounded to Ben as though war with Hati was not merely a diversion but _the_ diversion, but at the same time. "It's not a diversion. It's the end of the road for the unified pack."

"A trap for him and his ego to walk into," Jane echoed caustically.

"Exactly!" Jeremy stood. "I can't stay long, but I can promise you this, all of you, just prepare yourself for war and we'll do the rest. It's all in the works, it's only a matter of time."

Hati still wasn't ready to trust him. "What about the Death Eaters?" she asked. "What if they bring Death Eaters, burn this house down, take us down like they did your father's Den, what then? What plan do you have worked out for that?"

Jeremy paused; there was no easy answer for that, nothing he could confidently say. "If the Death Eaters come," he said, "we’ll figure something out. Just be prepared with your best wards, your best protection, have every wand be half as quick as Jane's, and it won't be an issue." He dared brush his wolf to hers, feeling its tensed control. "I'll stop at nothing, I'll slit their throats myself, trust me. _Trust me._ I will stop at nothing to end this, and if you will too, you'll trust me. I'm halfway there."

Hati lashed out against him instinctively, watched him recoil, and shouted to the gathered crowd, "Is it agreed, should we trust him? It's not my life alone at stake with this plan, it's all of yours."

There was a heightened tension in the air, as looks were exchanged but nobody really spoke. Jane... well, she could believe it, but that didn't mean she liked it. "Even if this pack decides it can't take part, I have to. Somehow. My family's in there." She spoke deliberately and directly to Hati, not without respect but leaving no room for misunderstanding. 

"And ours," Keith added, and stopped again at a mild look from Ben. For half a moment, he was unable to read his father's face and even expected to be admonished, but Ben's attention did not remain on him long as he turned back to speak to Hati.

"Fenrir will come sooner or later," he said pragmatically, evenly. "I told you, he won't bother with an envoy. It would be a waste of his time and take away any element of surprise he might possess. It might be better to trick him into coming on our terms, when we can be ready for him."

Of anyone's opinion in her house, at this point, Ben Skoll's mattered the most, and if he trusted the boy, well, she had no choice. Hati gave the Curenton a nod. "You have our support. Anything you need that we can offer, just ask. But if you fail -- "

"I won't fail." Jeremy knew the response he would get to cutting her off, took the lash of reaction from Hati's wolf in stride, and pressed on. "I won't fail, I can't fail. I know what's at stake, I promise you."

Hati appraised him. He meant what he said, there was no denying it. She only hoped he could deliver. "Good," she said, with a note of finality, and then declared, "Dinner! If it's still warm." She eyed the boy with his wand and broken nose once more, then left to go visit the kitchen and her husband.

The tension lessened immediately, and Jane stepped forward to Jeremy. "I'm sorry," she apologised again, more abashed than ever. "I was being cautious and got overly zealous -- here, hold still, I can heal your nose -- "

"Well, I will say one thing, Jeremy," Ben began, "and that is I am extremely glad you're not dead."

Jeremy obediently sat still and tried not to laugh. "It's fine, it is, I'm glad you -- agh -- you have good protection here." He looked to Ben. "As it happens, I'm hard to kill."

"I see that," he said, amused. "Still in one piece, too? Not missing any toes or anything that you're not showing us, right?"

"Well that makes for the second time my nose was broken and we think Wesley broke one of my ribs once, but all my limbs are attached." Jeremy sent Jane a graciously amused smile once she was finished and wiped the blood from his nose again. "Thanks. No, they think I'm a brainwashed little bastard who's fallen obediently into line, now, and we're killing the only one who suspects me at all."

Ben outright laughed. "You, a brainwashed bastard of the pack. _That_ might be the funniest thing I've heard all year, excuse me."

Jane, however, was not quite so amused. "Who's that, then?" she asked.

"Fenrir's first, Laurel." Jeremy took a seat again, allowing himself a smirk at Ben's amusement. "She saw right through me, she knows unnameds are just as dangerous as nameds. She's taking the fall for the rebellion."

"Well, if there's someone who knows about an unnamed being able to be dangerous as well as totally crazy, it's her," she said wryly.

"You calling Jeremy crazy?" Ben broke in, still very much entertained.

"You saying he's not? Anyway, I didn't say it was a bad thing," she added.

"Oh, I'm completely insane," Jeremy said, completely entertained as well. "Wouldn't be able to do this without dying of the pressure otherwise." He grinned at Jane and stuck his hand out to her. "We never were formally acquainted. I'm Jeremy Curenton. Son of celebrated author and creator of the Den, Owen Curenton. Fenrir's worst nightmare."

"And modest to boot, obviously," she replied, shaking his hand. "I'm Jane. Of Conor's pack, but you already know that."

"And obviously the worst nightmare of anyone who decides to lurk in the trees," Keith added, ruffling her hair affectionately as he walked past her to the door.

"Oh, get off me," she retorted, batting his hand away.

Jeremy laughed, wanting to talk more, really, but his attention was slowly drifting towards the smell of dinner. "Think it'd be all right if I stayed here a bit longer?" he asked Ben, then said to Jane, "Don't run off yet, I have one more thing to mention."

Jane made a rather unladylike motion at Keith, which Ben ignored. "I'm sure we can feed a clever trickster like yourself," Ben said, standing. "But don't conceal your wand, keep it out in the open," he further advised.

"I'll have to get used to that," Jeremy quipped, sitting back, trying to let the wolf calm down, but it hadn't exactly liked being attacked and then affronted twice by another wolf. He almost reached out to touch wolves with Jane before he remembered, instead actually looking at her. It was a strange feeling, not having that immediate sense at hand. "I don't know how well you might have known Melinda, or if you cared for her," he said to Jane, "but she might appreciate a familiar face."

She took in a deep breath and released it slowly. She hadn't seen any of them in so long -- it had been more than a year -- and the idea of seeing any of them, regardless of how they may have felt about her, was sorely tempting. "She was Geoff's, really, but... we got on. I think." Memory was a strange thing, one could never be sure that they were remembering something as it had been or as she wished it. "Thank you."

"No problem," he said with a nod. "Shouldn't be too long 'til you can see Briony and Conor, too. And I see Briony more than she might like, so, if you want to pass anything on." He shrugged. "But I'm getting dinner. Thanks for, you know, sending me back in one piece."

Well. Briony she definitely remembered there being a strained and complex relationship with, but she very much wanted to see both of them again. "Sure," she shrugged in return. "Well. At least we'll know it's you next time, won't we?"

"Dunno if I can keep coming here. It's a long way from the pack. We'll see." Jeremy raked his hand through his hair. "I'm glad you're on my side," he concluded. "Bet you could take on Alecto Carrow any day. Now. Dinner." No matter how exhausted he was, he had to focus. Food, and then escape. He turned to go.

Jane hung back with Ben as Jeremy went. "Friend of your pack, eh," she said finally.

"Friend of my pack… god save him, someone's got to," Ben sighed in return, squeezing her shoulder and lightly guiding her in front of him to head for dinner.

~*~

There were moments when Jeremy Curenton knew he was really not much more than a stupid young bloke who was perhaps too devoted to his work, with a girl he hardly deserved. Today it was far too evident, because he was on his way back to see his fiancée, it was a nice spring day in May, and he was stealing a few flowers from someone’s garden (they’d never miss them) to give to her to apologise for whatever stupid thing he was about to do or say.

Because, after all, there was no doubt in his mind what stupid, mad, very Curenton thing he was going to end up saying, and either way, it could hardly beat _Marry me._

He entered the house without even hesitating at the door, waved at Melinda, and stopped at the door of his father’s office. “Dad,” he said.

Owen regarded his son for a moment over the top of the latest edition of _The Daily Prophet_ before putting it down entirely. “Jeremy,” he replied in a similar tone, although as always happened, his nerves relaxed when Jeremy was in the house. He looked at the suspiciously well-kept flowers in his hand before speaking again, “For someone, or were you feeling particularly whimsical today?”

“For you, and I thought up a bit of poetry on the way, too,” Jeremy said in a cheerfully dry tone. “Anything good?” He indicated the newspaper and tried to catch a glimpse of a photograph moving on the front page. “I’ve not seen a copy in weeks, not the worst thing in the world really.”

“Well. I dare say that you haven’t missed much.” He glanced at the front page. “Just the usual disappearances, diatribe having to do with nothing at all – you know. Read it before you go if you’d like.”

“I will, I haven’t had my monthly quota of disgust with the wizarding press filled yet.” Jeremy lowered the flowers. “I have to talk to Julia, is she in? If she’s not, I – ” _will have to wait another week so it’ll stop being so bloody suspicious._ “I’ll wait for her.”

“She came this morning. Last I saw her, she was with your mother, but I don’t think she left. What they’d be doing, I can hardly say, I’m not sure I’m allowed to know,” he answered with a measure of good humour. “Go on, go rescue her.”

“Yeah, that’s me, charming prince on a horse. I’ll be back for that _Prophet,_ ” Jeremy swore before ducking out to find Julia. 

“I know it’s not something you’re terribly focused on, and it’s not going to be happening for some time, Julia, but I mean this for your own good, we really should talk about your wedding,” Brighid stated firmly as she sat Julia down in the empty sitting room. “I -- ” she happened to glance out the door. “ _Jeremy!_ ”

I Jeremy? “What?” Julia asked in return, immediately confused by the sudden change in subject. 

“What?” Jeremy responded automatically, sticking his head into the door. “Oh, good, Dad was right, hey, Julia, can we talk for a bit? Sorry Mum.”

“Yes, we can talk,” Julia answered before Brighid had a chance to break in, jumping up from her chair. “Er, sorry Brighid. We’ll talk soon,” she said, giving the most nonspecific answer she could to her future mother-in-law. 

He slipped his arm around Julia and slid the flowers into his pocket in one slick move, and couldn’t help but be a bit amused. “What was that?” he had to ask. “I haven’t seen you run that fast off of a football pitch.”

Her arm fit around him as well, and she kissed his cheek quickly in greeting. “Your mum wanted to talk about the wedding. Turns out you can’t really avoid your mother when she wants to talk,” she said with a bit of a grimace, as though this were something he would have been totally ignorant of. 

“No, that’s her particular talent,” he agreed. “It’s futile, you’re best to just let her corner you and be done with it. Wedding stuff sounds a bit boring, though, since all that matters is the whole … thing, not the wedding itself, I think. Anyway.” He flourished the flowers to her. “I got these for you.”

Jeremy, whether he always knew it or not, made her face go red on several occasions, and this was no exception. She accepted them and told herself to stop it, after everything they’d done, flowers were certainly no reason to blush. “Thanks,” she said.

He felt stupid, so he said, “It’s stupid, but I have to do something stupid and romantic at some point because, you know, I’m sort of a horribly absent boyfriend – fiancé – I swear I didn’t just forget that we’re getting married, because I didn’t. I really didn’t. I told a few people, even.” That sounded even stupider. “I hate not being here with you.”

“Well. It’s not my favourite part of this entire thing either,” she said, absently twirling the stem of one of the flowers between her fingers. She looked up at him, and hoped that hadn’t sounded as dismissive as she thought it had once it left her mouth. “Let’s go outside to talk,” she suggested. “It’s nice out.”

Jeremy couldn’t help but wear the stupid grin that he usually wore when he actually got some time with her. “Yeah. It is.” He kissed her cheek. “And no Mum to corner us about the wedding. Brilliant idea, as always.”

“It’s been known to happen,” she said, taking him out the back door this time, squinting slightly in the sunlight. Her flowers in one hand and his hand in the other, she led him to the back of the garden, to a grassy patch along the fence. “So,” she said, dropping to the ground, legs crossed.

He sat by her and looked around, in a failed attempt to make this feel somehow less surreal. “So,” he repeated, and tried to remember what he was there for, because right now this felt just too right. “Oh. Yeah. I didn’t bring anyone today. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” she said, leaning against the fence. “So you said.”

“Right. I did. Well, I … ” How was he supposed to put this? “The werewolves are split in three groups at the moment. There’s the Den, the unified pack, and a pack run by a female pack leader named Hati.” He began to fiddle with a blade of glass. “Hati’s not like most pack leaders because she’s, well, a female, and she runs her pack by consensus – democratic – and she has wizards on hand to protect her pack. And I went to see her, to enlist her help.”

“And what did she say?” she asked, interjecting appropriately.

“Well. Eventually, after intimidating the hell out of me for a bit, she agreed, mostly because of Ben Skoll, great bloke. Anyway, I have to keep sending her information about how long it’s going to be until the unified pack declares war on her pack.”

Julia tried not to be amused at the image, because there was nothing particularly amusing about it, but something just struck her silly. “Okay.”

“Scary woman. Scary, scary woman.” Jeremy shook his head. “Fenrir doesn’t scare me, but she does. Well, I know Fenrir’s weaknesses and I don’t know Hati’s for certain. The point is ...” This was ludicrous, but he had to try. “The thing is, I can’t keep taking my messages there personally, I leave the pack enough to bring the unnameds here. I can’t owl, or trust that the post wouldn’t be intercepted. I need a messenger who isn’t me to take the messages from the Den to Hati’s pack house. It’s the only way.”

She contemplated it. “If you want someone here to go, I’m sure all you need to do is ask them and they’ll do it.”

“I’m glad you think so.” He took a moment to consider, but he had no reason not to ask. “Will you, then?”

For some reason, that took longer to sink into her brain and make sense of than his proposal had. “I’m sorry, you want me to go?”

He nodded. “I want you to go. It would be perfect, they wouldn’t follow you, no one’s going to suspect you’re doing this, and you’ll – you’re a witch, but you’re my witch, they won’t suspect you like they’d suspect a witch or like they’d suspect a Den werewolf. You’re as close to me as I can get without going there myself. So. I would like you to go.”

Everything he said was true, as much as she could figure. “I. Yes. Okay.” It didn’t sound all that difficult. 

Jeremy raised his eyebrows and picked at his blade of grass again. “I’ll have to warn them. And you might have to Apparate really very close, because when I tried to approach, Jane broke my nose and trussed me up like a Christmas goose.”

“Oh no,” Julia answered, and clapped a hand over her mouth to cover her escaping laughter. “I mean. That’s awful.”

“You’re laughing at me. You’re _laughing_ that my nose was broke again,” he accused, despite rather openly laughing himself.

“Well, not so much the nose breaking,” she admitted. “But the overall image was one worthy of amusement.”

“I found it funny,” he said, conceding the point, “but mostly because my allies are absurdly more prepared than my enemies are, and my enemies just might win anyway.”

She lifted a hand to one of his cheeks, and met his eyes. “It has to work,” she said. There was no other acceptable outcome.

And that was why he had to send her. She knew that, just as well as he did. He kissed her, and it was all too surreal and ridiculous and it was very difficult for him to just let go. For once, though, he did.

How she ended up flat on her back in the grass, Julia could hardly say, but her pragmatism woke up when she felt a rock digging into her spine and his fingers on the bare skin of her stomach underneath her Holyhead Harpies t-shirt. She broke the kiss, saying, “You know I love you but can we find a more secluded patch of something without rocks in them?”

Jeremy had to wait for that thought to sink in properly before he could say “Oh, right. Yeah. Uh. … Well, no time to waste.”

She laughed and bashed him lightly over the head with her flowers, still clenched in one hand. “Okay, maestro.”

“Those flowers,” he told her, laughing hard as he tried to speak, “were skillfully acquired from a very classy garden, Julia, have some respect!” He stood and held out his hand to her.

“You took my flowers from someone else’s garden,” she repeated as he pulled her up from the ground. “You are, if nothing else, the epitome of class, Jeremy.”

“Yeah, well…” Jeremy grinned. “I did pick them out myself.”

“Bet you had a great selection to choose from, too,” she rolled her eyes.

“Well next time on my way back from the madhouse I’ll make a detour past the florist,” he teased. “Come _on._ ” 

“I follow you,” she teased back, adding a long kiss for good measure.

~*~

In the weeks that passed since their meeting, each of the four went back to their respective works. Jeremy oversaw everything, Skylar and Briony were the eyes and ears among the unnameds, children, and other members of the pack, while Remus stayed in his place in the upper echelons. He did his best to keep things running smoothly, what was of expected of him, and whatever could deflect suspicion from himself or any of the others. It was business as usual for the saboteurs of Fenrir's pack while they waited for the next visit from their Death Eater contact.

Perhaps luckily, they didn't have to wait long. About a week after Jeremy returned from what had appeared to be a favorable if somewhat painful reception at Hati's pack, Yaxley knocked on the door, ignoring the pack children who peeked up at him curiously through the railing. The door opened quicker than he thought it might, showing him Fenrir's second in command. Remus, he thought. 

Remus's pulse quickened. Yaxley was here. Things began today. "He's here," he broke in before Yaxley could say anything, and indicated for him to enter the house.

Yaxley did so. "Good. Then I'll see him, I have orders to deliver." He considered himself a patient man, but he was not prepared to wait all day to see a halfbreed like Fenrir Greyback.

God, this was luck. Remus didn't think he'd ever be so happy to see a Death Eater and was unlikely to be so ever again. He glanced in the main room first, mostly devoid of life on the April day, and saw Fenrir at one of the windows that looked to the side of the house. Like he was waiting. "Fenrir," he spoke with deference that hopefully seemed convincing -- it had worked so far. "Yaxley is here."

Fenrir kept his gaze on the window, at first brushing the wolf against his first’s, only looking back when that verified his son's opinion of the situation. He wore a wicked grin. "Good," he declared, and approached Remus quickly, enthusiastic. "We'll have blood and new wolves this full moon, by God!"

He wasn't surprised at Fenrir's excitement; it was almost depressing how predictable it was. "I'm sure," he echoed with a small smile, quick as he could manage without making it look nervous.

Fenrir clapped him on the shoulder, hard, and barked a loud laugh before walking into the front hall to find the Death Eater. "Yaxley! You better have something good and tasty for me, wizard, it's been too long." He saw Wesley lurking back and gave him the slightest nod upon catching his eye, turning to the Death Eater with a wide grin.

Even if the werewolf was in jovial disposition, Yaxley retained his tempered disdain. It was not as pronounced as the first time he had visited, but then, he did not relish the idea of having a knife to his throat again. "I have several... somethings," he said. "For the coming month, and times after. The Dark Lord wishes to be less discriminate about how he puts you to use."

That was good news. Oh yes, Fenrir's good feelings about the future that had struck him this day _weren't_ just a flight of fancy. "Do tell," he said. "Bigger targets? No more stringy halfbreeds, some traitorous purebloods to add to my pack?"

"Perhaps some," he conceded in return. "But, no more months in between, waiting. We will continue to point you to our enemies. Some... will simply be for fun." The werewolf considered it fun, it certainly seemed.

" _Finally_ you put me to use! You won’t regret it." Fenrir laughed and rested his hand proudly on his first son's shoulder. "I told you the best was to come and here it is," he told Remus, then considered. "Wesley!" he barked, all business. 

"Yes, Father." Wesley stalked out from behind Yaxley without hesitation or even consideration of the wizard.

"Where's Laurel?" Fenrir sent Yaxley a weary glance but said nothing. His pack was a priority even above himself, that was the point, wasn't it?

Wesley lowered his head in respect and stepped back, his hand resting near his hidden knife. "I haven't seen her since breakfast, Father."

"Right. Yaxley, let's talk," Fenrir said, all joviality gone then. "Remus, go about your business, you know your orders, Wesley, the children have been left unattended too long. Go." He gestured for Yaxley to follow him upstairs.

Yaxley spared a look but no further words for the placid heir and the zealous, other wolf before following Fenrir up the stairs and out of sight. Remus hadn't noticed, however. He was more focused on what Wesley had said. "You haven't seen Laurel since breakfast," he repeated. 

Wesley looked at Remus the moment he spoke, giving him the respect he deserved, and honestly considered the apparent question from the first of the pack. "That's right," he said after a thoughtful moment. "She goes and does things. I haven't seen her."

"Of course," he said, pretending to mull it over briefly. "She spends some time with the unnameds, is all. I mean, not so much as she did when Alecto was around, but..." He trailed off with a look that clearly indicated what that was meant to insinuate.

Wesley wore a look of genuine confusion before the meaning settled. "She is one of them," he agreed slowly. "She always has been."

"Yes," he said. "I mean, she's hardly happy about that, but that can't be helped."

"Without her, we might not be here." Wesley shifted on his feet. "But she is still one of them. And will never be one of us. But she still stands beside our Father." He brushed his hair from his eyes. "Strange, isn't it?"

_He uses her and throws her away._ And she was always there to be picked up again. It was sad but true. "Strange, and remarkable how... close she can get to Fenrir." He shook his head like he was getting rid of something hardly worth considering. Had he done his damage here? Perhaps. "Anyway."

“Anyway,” Wesley agreed, hesitant to leave the conversation at that, but not wanting to interrupt the train of thought of the first. He didn’t let the moment slip away, and dared speak up. “Er, Remus.”

He hadn’t expected he would get out of the conversation quite that easily, but he glanced back at Wesley. “Yes?” 

As always, he spoke in his stilted way, but now he gained a touch of formality. “I know the unnameds are your affair, but … if you want someone to keep an eye on the, er, situation, well, I … I would be honoured to do so. For the sake of our Father.”

He kept a calm countenance, obviously not wanting to arouse suspicion but neither wanting to give Wesley free reign where Jeremy was doing his part. “I have them handled, thank you, Wesley,” he said calmly. “But if the occasion should arise… I would need you.”

“Yes, of course,” Wesley said quickly, “I didn’t mean to offend, I only meant to offer some help, of course, I – you know I’m at your service.”

“No, no offense taken,” he replied just as hastily, hands raised slightly. That was the last thing he needed, honestly. “It… was good of you to offer. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do, Remus.” He stepped away, then said haltingly, “Your suspicions might best be given to our Father. If they’re valid. Which they are, I’m sure,” he added in the same breath, “I only worry. Thank you.” He walked off as quickly as he could to see to the children before Remus could reply.

Rory peered out from the crack of the door he was hiding behind, and whispered, “Remus! Remus, is he gone? Gemma, this was a bad idea, this was a _really bad idea_ \-- ”

Gemma’s head popped out from under Rory’s like a comedy film Remus had once seen with his mother. “It’s _fine,_ Rory, nobody saw us except Remus and anyway he’s not going to say nothing, right Remus?” she asked as she looked up at him.

“Not going to say _anything,_ Gemma,” he corrected her gently as she fell out from behind the closet door. “And I won’t say anything, but I don’t think hiding in the closets of the pack house and overhearing conversations you shouldn’t be listening to is a good way to stay under the radar, you know.” 

She made a face at him, but then asked, “What’s a radar?”

Rory still didn’t leave the door as cover. “A radar’s a Muggle thing that finds people, ‘s like a tracking charm. Are you sure we’re fine? What if he comes back? He’s always trying to herd us kids in like we’re blasted sheep or something.”

“They _are_ sheep,” Gemma muttered, pulling Rory out behind her with all her might.

“Well, so long as you have your wits about you I don’t think that you have anything to fear,” Remus said.

“What were you talkin’ about?” Gemma asked boldly. “Is there going to be more wolves coming?”

“… Perhaps,” Remus answered carefully. “It depends. Don’t worry about it, just listen to what Skylar tells you to do.”

“She tells me to stay out of trouble.”

“But of course she doesn’t,” Rory muttered, and gave Gemma a rebellious look. “Always sneaking around the house, and hiding and trying to listen to things and trying to help him, the one who, well, you know, _Skylar_ listens to? Yeah, it’s all him.” He gave Remus a pointed look. “I think she likes him.”

“Yeah? Well think it all you want,” Gemma retorted, but there was a telltale crimson blush rising in her pale cheeks. 

“Well, be that as it may, you are a bigger help when you’re doing what is asked of you,” Remus said, and then lowered his voice so just the three of them could hear. “What we are doing depends on secrecy and discretion, the latter of which you are sorely lacking, Gemma.” He touched her wolf briefly to soften the words, but she seemed unabashed.

“Do you hear that, discretion, ‘s what I told you, Gemma, we have to be discreet and tactful and polite an’ all,” Rory insisted. “We have to stay out of their way, we can do what he says, like he says tell everyone what we heard you know, about Miss Carrow, but we can’t get all underfoot and telling people about the _real_ stuff. Tact. Right, Remus?” 

“Right,” he said.

”I know that,” Gemma said impatiently. “But it’s not any fun.”

Just what this plan needed, an underaged adrenaline junkie. “It’ll be fun when you can go back to your pack, Gem,” he told her gently.

Rory was uncharacteristically silent, staring at the ground for a moment at the discussion of home, before he abruptly said, “’kay, going to check with Skylar then,” and ran off down the hall.

Devoid of her partner in crime, Gemma was significantly less enthusiastic once Rory disappeared. “He wants to leave,” she said. “Since Keith’s out there an’ all. I think it’s harder for him to stay.”

“I expect it is,” he replied, looking after him before glancing back down at Gemma. “Sometime. You know what you’re supposed to do, so go ahead and stick to that. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and after a moment seemed to emanate a renewed sort of energy that he had not seen from anyone else. “See you later, Remus!” she cheered, and dashed out the front door, ready to play her role.

~*~

_May 1981_  
Lily took her turn staying at home with Harry during an Order meeting, James going alone. Next time, he would stay with Harry and she would go. It was not an ideal arrangement but the best they could manage. James had no family left, the only person she had in her family was her sister and that was less than an option. Though dear Bathilda Bagshot insisted that it was a joy to watch little Harry, and her family didn't visit her nearly often enough, Lily didn't want to impose. So she took her turn while James went.

The Order meeting was short, unhelpful, and went nowhere fast. The only thing they found was that they were becoming incredibly hard-pressed on all sides and extremely short-handed. It was beginning to get demoralising. Once the meeting adjourned and they broke into smaller, separate conversations, Sirius turned to James. "Lily at home with my godson, then?" he asked conversationally.

James grinned at that and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Yeah, Lily's at home with my son," he said with broad arrogance and pride. "Harry Potter, the best thing to hit the world since the dawn of modern Quidditch. So are you coming? Wormtail!" he called to Peter, who was lingering in brief conversation with Benjy Fenwick. "Come on, we're all coming back to my place for a drink. Or two."

Sirius quickly grinned back. "Yeah, right," he agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Rough meeting, eh?" He was now blatantly filling time as Peter caught up to them, although filling time had always been a specialty of his.

James grimaced. "Yeah, we're all doing our best and it's still not enough, loads more arse to kick -- right, Pete?" He ruffled Peter's hair with a laugh. "Won't be any trouble, the Death Eaters haven't seen the last of us." 

It was the times like this that made Peter's skin crawl, as though they knew and were just waiting for the perfect moment to pin him to a table and yank up his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark. They were _smiling._ "Right," he laughed, and the Dark Lord's mastery of Cruciatus sprang to mind, and he forced himself to relax. "You mentioned drinks?"

Sirius gave a short laugh. "Right, Wormtail's got the idea. First things first, Prongs."

James had to get out of here before he could really think about the Moony-shaped hole in their plans. "First drinks, then arsekicking? A fantastic plan, Padfoot, I'm a genius, now let's go!" He Disapparated.

"Sod," Sirius swore, and looked at Peter. "C'mon," he added unnecessarily before disappearing with the whipcrack of Disapparation and reappearing in the front garden of the Potters' house in Godric's Hollow. 

Lily heard the Apparation from inside the front room where she was curled up with a book, listening carefully for either signs of intrusion or Harry in the nursery upstairs. She pulled the curtain aside and looked out the window. James, Sirius, and Peter were all easily recognisable, and she waited for a fourth man to appear, but none came. Her relaxed expression immediately changed into worry. News of more werewolf attacks in the last couple months had made her so, and she let her practical side take over. Just because Remus hadn't returned with the three of them didn't mean that he was not all right, it did not mean he was involved in the attacks, it did not mean he hadn't been at the meeting. It did not mean anything except Remus was not there at that moment. 

The front door opened and she called softly, "Be quiet you three, Harry finally dropped off about twenty minutes ago and if you wake him, you get to put him back to sleep."

"I know, I know." James didn't even consider the drinks, just sighed and went to find his wife in the front room. "It didn't go well. We need drinks. It was bad," he concluded. "And Remus wasn't there."

Her face changed again, but she pushed it all from the front of her mind. "No matter," she sighed, kissing James and then Sirius and Peter on their cheeks.

"Yeah, no matter," Sirius echoed dryly, already rummaging his way through the liquor cabinet along one wall. "We only hear nothing from him, ever. But no matter."

Peter took a seat and put his head in his hands. "There are a lot of attacks," he said, sounding worried. "They're _killing_ people and we don't hear a word from him."

James turned on Peter immediately and spoke as soon as Peter closed his mouth. "What are you saying?" he said, raising his voice. "If you're going to say something, just say it."

“James, your voice," Lily chided, but her eyes were on Peter. 

"I expect that he isn't really saying anything," Sirius said, putting a glass of firewhiskey into James's hand and another into Lily's, who immediately passed hers off to Peter. "But we all know that Remus has been chronically absent, and under suspicious circumstances."

James hurriedly swallowed a gulp of firewhiskey. "That's enough of that," he said, his voice low. _You're going to upset Lily._ "There are more important things to talk about."

Peter looked into his glass. "All due respect, James, really, but... more important than a spy who could give you away -- give all of us away?"

"He's not spying," Lily said. "We've -- Alice and I have talked about this, since she and Frank were doing everything with the werewolves. And _I_ talked to him."

"All due respect for your superior intellect and all, Lily," Sirius started delicately, "but if he were spying, do you really think he would tell anyone, least of all you or any of us?"

Lily sent Sirius a heavy glare. "I think if he were spying, he wouldn't be doing it of his own accord."

Peter took a long, long drink of firewhiskey, swallowed with a wince, and said, "Lily, just because you don't want it to be true doesn't mean that it isn't."

"And just because Remus is a werewolf doesn't mean he's out attacking people at the full moon and waiting to hand us over," she snapped back. She could make herself believe a lot of things, but after she'd talked to him -- after she'd seen what was behind his eyes and what she had no words for -- she did not believe that if he was a spy he could possibly be doing it of his own volition. "Besides, absent from meetings? Never seeing any of us? It doesn't exactly sound like the attendance record of a vigilant spy."

"Well I think he's too busy biting and killing people now, but if you want to let him into your house, then... then that's your funeral," Peter dared say, and set his glass down on the table hard as though to punctuate his point.

“How can you even _say_ that?" Lily demanded, advancing but feeling a touch on her arm. She spun on Sirius. "WHAT," she hissed, wanting to get across exactly how irritated she was without raising her voice and risking waking Harry.

Sirius was unfazed. Lily angry was not exactly not dangerous, but she had nothing on his mother. "He has a point. Just because you don't want it to be true doesn't mean that it isn't -- or that he's not being used, which is every bit as dangerous to us as doing it willingly."

"And just because he hasn't betrayed us yet doesn't mean he won't betray us," Peter finished, frantically defiant, forcing himself to keep his voice down. "Lily, you're smarter than this!"

James touched Lily's arm and managed to contain his anger just long enough to let Peter finish speaking. "That's enough," he shouted. "This is pointless."

Lily wasn't precisely willing to listen to anything that may or may not have been reason. "I also know Remus, he's not... I just thought you'd be a little more open to the idea that maybe even if you're not keeping in mind that you were friends for so many years, he is." She crossed her arms to keep her hands from shaking. "I'm going upstairs," she finished shortly, and left them in the front room.

There was a tense silence until James downed his firewhiskey and slammed down the glass. "We're best mates," he said, only barely looking in the direction of Sirius and Peter. "We've always been best mates. The four of us. And you two are doing a _fuck awful_ job of it right now." He turned away and went to go find Lily.

Sirius was slightly abashed, although he was far from reconsidering his opinion on the matter. He looked at Peter, and took a drink of his firewhiskey. "You had to know Lily wasn't going to be so keen to hear that. Even if she is smarter than that," he said. "Bit of a blindspot where Moony is concerned, really."

"She always has, always will. I hope I'm wrong," Peter said quickly, and poured himself another glass. "I just ... I don't think I am. Everything else is going so badly, it would just... make sense, wouldn't it?"

"Nothing compared to her blindspot concerning Snivellus," he said with a face indicating exactly what he thought of that. "Or what it was. It's not as though we want it to be true," he said, more to himself than to Peter.

"Yeah, exactly. It's _Remus._ Moony. Our best mate. It's not our fault that he's acting suspicious." Peter scratched his head. "I dunno, maybe I'm being an idiot."

"Well. It's a point," Sirius said. He was willing to chalk it up to Lily being Muggleborn, having grown up thinking werewolves were a fiction, like vampires, witches, and everything else. Werewolves as a whole were not the best part of the wizarding world, and especially how things were, that was arguably for the best. Sirius had been willing to believe Remus the exception, but if he was not with the wizards, it was increasingly hard to believe he could be on their side.

"Yeah," Peter said, and dared to look over at Sirius. He wore his best worried look. "I was hoping you'd call me an idiot, Sirius. You usually call me an idiot."

"Idiot," he said half-heartedly. Peter lifted his glass to Sirius and then drank, falling silent. Sirius ironically lifted his glass in return and finished the firewhiskey left in his glass. "I'm going to go before Lily discovers we're still here and decides to bite my head off for a midnight snack."

Peter looked into his glass, troubled, and finished his drink. "Be careful," he said, uncertainly.

"Yeah, you too, Wormtail," Sirius said, replacing his glass and leaving by the front door again. He hoped they were wrong about Remus, god he did, but there no sense in taking a chance, even if it was "just" Remus.

Alone, Peter rubbed at his left forearm, and as soon as he was sure Sirius was gone, he departed to leave James and Lily by themselves, to their own discussion. From the doorway he could hear hushed voices in heated discussion, and though it made him sick to realise it, his work was done.


	19. Speak Less Than Thou Knowest

_Rumours are the tools of men who seek to destroy from the inside. People may say that sticks and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt you -- that is not true. Broken bones will be healed with a trip to the hospital, words can destroy trust, a relationship, good faith… the wrong words can break so much. To hear, "I don't love you anymore," you would almost wish that they were breaking your bones instead, and when you are told, "I never want to see you again," you think you might well do it yourself._ Stewart Cauldwell, _A Shadow Cast By Green Light: A Wartime Memoir,_ 1984.

_May 1981_  
Skylar walked with a bounce in her step on a normal day. Days when she was in a good mood and could create a little havoc where it was necessary were the best days, and the bounce became an energized spring. Whether by nature or by nurture, Gemma was the same way. On an afternoon not long after Yaxley visited the pack and their plot began to roll, she took Gemma to the side to speak with her privately. "You know what you and Rory have to do, right?" 

"'Course I do," she said, looking up at her. "You should worry 'bout Rory, he's the one who's gonna chicken out and leave me hanging."

"I'm _not_ worried about Rory," she answered, straining at their tie with just enough tension so that she knew Gemma would take her seriously. "I'm worried about you, because you want to do things like hang around in closets and listen to conversations that Remus has with Wesley." 

Gemma at the very least had the grace to look sheepish when Skylar admonished her. "He told you about that," she said, just for the sake of having something to say.

"He did. Stick to the plan today. Rory will come through, just trust him," she said, then brushing Gemma's black hair away from her shoulders. "I have to talk to the adults."

"Who? Can I -- "

" _No,_ you cannot," she said firmly again. "Now go find Rory and go do your thing. I know you can."

With the smallest of put-upon sighs, Gemma nodded and then sped off, leaving Skylar behind. Skylar sighed in return to the empty foyer. She knew exactly who she should look for, and began to do so; Aaron and Caleb were never very far from one another. One would be enough, but both would be better.

"It's ludicrous is what it is," Caleb said heatedly, colour coming to his face at the same old dispute played over and over again. "It shouldn't matter, the children should be raised as they always are, by a pack, and that's what we are now, Aaron, as we're so often reminded by our leader, a pack -- "

Aaron slapped his hand over Caleb's mouth, mouth quirking up in a slight smirk at the obvious indignation of his former heir. "I thought you'd learned your lesson about mouthing off to your superiors, but it looks like things never change with you and your pack, do they?"

Caleb pushed Aaron's hand away, stung at being treated like the heir once again. He'd left Aaron's ridiculous pack and took half of the pack with him a year previous, he didn't have to put up with this anymore. "I had sense, I saved my pack, I didn't spit in Fenrir's face and expect to survive, the survival of your pack is what matters, not that anything matters to you more than yourself and your _orthodoxy_ \-- "

"Oh look, it's Ben Skoll's girl," Aaron said loudly at the girl's approach, hoping to end the conversation that they always seemed to end up in. "We'll talk about this later, Caleb, something to say?" he added to the girl. 

"Just checking things out," Skylar said with a smile to both of them. "Wasn't so difficult to find you two, anyone can hear you before they see you, you know," she added to them, taking a casual stance with both hands on her hips.

"It's a whole new debate even though it might not sound it, you know," Caleb spoke up in an attempt to catch her eye. "Maybe you could judge it fairly? I think the answer's easy enough but Aaron's always got to argue."

"As I'm the one who causes trouble," Aaron said, tone wry as could be. "Would you be so kind, Skylar?"

"Well," she said, pretending to consider it. "I suppose I could try to give impartial judgment. 'Try' being the key phrase," she further joked.

Caleb laughed at that, and leaned forward. "Well, I have faith in you. Have a seat?" He pushed a chair forward with his foot.

"We expect we're supposed to have these things hashed out by Fenrir's favourites, but there's talk of war so we don't need to trouble them," Aaron said lightly, with a glance aside at his son. "It's a matter of some of the pack’s children, and who should take care of them, as they were Joanna's, and she died."

"She was killed in the war Fenrir declared on Aaron," Caleb clarified. "And one of mine, Shannon, she's got her little Freddy, and Freddy and poor Nora are great friends, and she just wants to look after Joanna's Nora and Brian, but since Shannon's one of mine, they won't have it. It's ridiculous, at this point we're all one big mess of packs as it is, we're never going to get out, I don't know why we're -- "

Aaron turned to Skylar as he talked. "Don't mind him," he said, right over Caleb's impassioned defence. "It comes down to that they're from my pack so my werewolves should take care of them, don't you agree?"

"Better than Wesley," Caleb said under his breath, looking at Skylar for a moment for some sort of response. He'd seen her around Briony enough, after all.

"Oh, we're a unified pack now, I think we should all take care of each other now, don't you reckon?" she said with a broad smirk.

"Now that's trouble talking," Caleb said, with much a similar look in return. "Just what I'd expect out of Ben Skoll's favourite daughter. She's on my side though," he added to Aaron, blithe as anything.

Aaron just shook his head, not quite tolerant of this talk even from a girl like Skylar. "This conversation's taken a bad turn, I think we need to try this again. He's again trying to take what's rightfully mine, I -- "

"I take what's rightfully yours when you fail to do what's best for it, Aaron, that's the way it was and that's the way it always will be. Problem solved," Caleb said with a note of finality, ignoring the heated glare he received from Aaron as he considered Skylar. "Sky. I think our conversation's making Aaron a bit nervous, d'you have the time to go talk somewhere less, ah, open?" He gestured at the common area dismissively.

"As long as they are taken care of and loved." She was going to answer, she really was. But it would nag at her later if she said nothing now. "I think that would be fine, Caleb, are we going to talk more trouble or will there be less of that?"

As Aaron left with a curt nod in farewell to Skylar, Caleb went on as though nothing occurred. "Whatever you like. There aren't many in this pack open for some candid talk, if you can handle that," he added as a half-joke. "Lots of werewolves of the old patriarchy grumbling about the way things are and not doing a thing about it. Come on." He stood as well. "He hasn't got ears everywhere."

She had been treating the pack as if he had, but she made herself smile appreciatively. It would have been nice to be able to plant the rumour in Aaron's ear, but it would spread like wildfire all the same. "Well. We're here, doesn't mean we all have to be completely happy about such a complete change from everything we've always known. Let's walk," she said.

They walked, and Caleb hesitated to speak in hopes of saying it just right and not in the words of an orthodox zealot. "A complete change from everything we've ever known, from everything we've ever been taught, just because Greyback liked the sound of a messianic cult."

Skylar clasped her hands behind her back. "Strong words coming from an heir who left and took half of the pack with him," she said mildly, conversationally.

Caleb couldn't help but grin at that. "Hey, that's not fair. I didn't mean to do that. I was just going to leave and they happened to follow me."

"Oh, total accident, I get it now," she laughed.

"Total accident," he laughed, nodding. "Exactly! Thing was, Aaron was making selfish choices, something I normally wouldn't hold against a pack leader, except they were hurting the pack." He held a door open for her. "I did my best to change his mind, his ways, anything, but it wasn't working, because I was just the heir. There was a better life to be had, I offered it, and most of them took it. What can I say? It's not the first time it's happened, just the first time the heir's won out."

"I see," she nodded, leaving the house and waiting for him on the grass. "They wanted to leave, you provided what looked like a better option for them."

"I did. Of course, if the unified pack's done anything, it's given us the opportunity to possibly mend those problems, if Aaron stops being a stubborn old dog long enough to listen to me." He glanced at her. "I expected you'd understand, what with all that bastard Gareth did in your pack."

Skylar gave a short sigh. It wasn't a favourite collective memory of their pack, they usually made a point to avoid it. "Yeah," she agreed. "Well. Things'd been a lot worse for all of us if Ben hadn't done what he did. Gareth was not ready to run a pack, doing any worse would be nigh inconceivable."

"Yeah." Caleb shook his head. "Too bad no one was there to just nip Fenrir in the bud, right?"

"Well," she said. "He had a lot of encouragement when it came to carrying out this... pack." She glanced back at the house. "The witch, you know."

"I know the witch," he said, now wearing a grim smile. "She wanted to kill me, you know. Told me a thousand times."

"You and whoever happened to be closest at the minute, I think," Skylar answered in a similar tone. There was no doubt that the witch was a force to be reckoned with. "She's coming back, is what I heard."

His demeanour changed instantly, his posture straight and tensed. "She's coming back? Who told you that?"

"Oh, I heard Yaxley mention it to Remus before he left the last time. I was just around the corner," she said, but pulled a face. "I don't mind Yaxley so much, he's never around unless You-Know-Who's got something for Fenrir, he doesn't want to hang around and torture us lot like she did."

Caleb nodded again, still shaken at the idea of the witch's return. "The worst bit was her acting like torturing us was enough to make her a saint right there. Or killing the ones she didn't trust, like she was the one running things."

"Yeah," Skylar said, her throat suddenly dry. She cleared her throat and cleared her head. The witch had likely killed as many of theirs as Wesley had. "Knowing her, she'll probably be trying to make up for lost time or something."

"Why d'you think she's coming back?" he asked, hoping his nerves were managing not to show.

"Dunno." She shrugged. "Didn't mention, it was just real offhand, like. 'Cause she wants to and can, I expect."

"I just wonder, 'cause it could well be this war with Hati everyone's talking about. Since Hati's got all those wands."

"Oh," she said, as though it hadn't occurred to her. "I suppose you could be right about that."

"I dunno if this pack can withstand another war," he said. "This is just bleeding ridiculous, don't you think? I'm tired of being ordered around by a madman with a messiah complex."

She gave him a little smirk, but there was a tinge of satisfaction in it as well. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

Caleb tried a smirk in return. "Not much to do about it, though, except try to keep the kids from being pulled in. Or the adults, even – with all the talk of werewolf supremacy and an attack on wizards, all the more traditional packs are eating out of the palm of his hand. You'd better watch out for Aaron, if he suspects you think how I think you think -- you're not nearly as well-protected as your friend Briony, that's all. I worry about you, you know," he added.

She shrugged again. "There's no one in this pack half as well-protected as Briony is, except maybe Remus. _Maybe_ Laurel, although it certainly doesn't seem like it these days. Anyway, it's not really me I'm worried about, much. But they'd hurt Gemma before they did anything to me, I think, to shut me up. It's how they work," she said, and stopped. No matter how much of this conversation depended on her being able to keep a poker face, she could hardly stand the idea of anyone laying a finger on her girl.

The idea disturbed him, too, and he couldn't hide it. "The kids," he said, exhaling. "God, I worry about the kids. What they're learning. If they're going to turn out just like Fenrir's brainwashed little brats, like Wesley and Laurel and Remus."

"Well. I'm not really worried about Gem getting into that kind of trouble," she admitted, recovering herself with a small bit of forced laughter. "She just likes to run around. Get into things she oughtn't necessarily be in. That's what'll get her in trouble. But... some of them, yes. Some of them are already that way, just listen to them talk sometime." Now she was overthinking it and getting worried. If it came down to it, she knew Rory would do his best to keep her in line, but many times Gemma did not live in a line so much as in a zig zag.

He touched her shoulder without a second thought. "Hey, it's all right. They won't hurt the kids, they won't. They'll hurt anyone else, but they won't hurt the kids, no matter what they say."

"Yeah. They are the future," she said in an uncharacteristically caustic tone.

"The future of the unified pack," he returned in a similar tone, with a wry smile.

She glanced at the hand still on her shoulder but said nothing about it, instead looking at the grass. "I... don't know what kind of bad blood there is in your pack, or well, packs, but now it's more important to stick together than it is to be right. So in conclusion to what was going on way earlier, I don't think it matters who takes care of the two children. They just need to be taken care of. They're children, so they won't care where the love is coming from, as long as they feel safe. I don't think you can play pack politics when it comes to the welfare of children."

Caleb accepted that with a nod and stayed silent, contemplative, for a moment, before he spoke. "I'd kill to get them all out of here, I would, but I think any halfway decent werewolf in this pack would say the same." He paused and opened his mouth to go on, but immediately stopped and froze at the sound of the door opening behind them. He took a casual glance back and slipped his arm around Skylar. "Laurel," he murmured, leaning close to her ear.

Her luck with timing was scary. "Smooth, Casanova," she teased in a strange combination of light humour and grimness.

"Well, we do make a charming couple," he returned with a grin, having no excuse not to take advantage of the situation.

"Couple of what?"

"Traitors?" he suggested, in grimly comedic fashion.

She laughed at that a bit harder than she'd meant to, but it felt good to do so. "I suppose we are at that."

"Oh, we are." He looked back again only to see Laurel approaching them. "Something to say?" he called to her.

"Not to you. To Princess there," Laurel said, with a wave indicating Skylar, speaking as briskly as she walked.

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow and drew herself up to her full height. "And what is that, then?" she asked genially.

Laurel stepped forward, her hand drifting to her hip where her knife was ever present. "You haven't got me fooled, Princess, I know what you're up to. You're not one of us and you never will be, none of you from Skoll's sorry lot know how lucky you are."

_Fenrir kick you out of his bed again?_ was Skylar's kneejerk reaction, although she saw the knife well enough and was far from stupid. "What am I up to, Laurel?" she asked calmly.

Laurel wavered but only for a moment; not having any real evidence wasn't about to stop her. "Nothing good, that's for sure. I see you sneaking around, talking to Conor's bitch, you're no better than their bastard pack, you know."

Caleb eyed the knife, but couldn't resist. After all, she was just an unnamed. "Someone's nervous," he commented lightly to Skylar.

Skylar demonstratively rolled her eyes at Caleb. She might have been joy and light incarnate, but she didn't have a lot of patience for crap. Even if Laurel was one hundred percent correct. "Right, okay. I'll stop my no good seduction techniques now, Laurel."

Laurel shook her head. "I say we should've just killed you lot, you're barely real werewolves, with patricide and a female heir, well, what rot that all is -- "

"At least she's got a name," Caleb interrupted, unsurprised but still startled when Laurel's knife was suddenly out and right at his throat. "Right, kill me, that'll get you in his favour. Even Carrow knew better than that."

Laurel pressed the tip of the knife to his throat, blinded by anger and nicking his skin. "Don't you bloody mention her again, she's gone for good, gone back to her 'Father' she called him, ha. She doesn't know a thing."

That particular point they seemed to be in agreement on, but that was about where their agreement seemed to end. "Just leave us be, Laurel. If I'm just the female heir from a bastard pack, I'm not really much of a threat, am I?" Skylar said.

"We don't stand for disloyalty in Fenrir's pack." Laurel considered the boy for a moment. "And you're both in Fenrir's pack." She looked to Skylar next, and lowered her knife. "And I trust you'll remember that before you do something stupid like that idiot Father of yours, Ben Skoll."

Many uncharitable thoughts were racing through Skylar’s brain; Laurel had undeniably hit a button, but rising to that bait was definitely not in her best interest. Ben was easily a thousand times the pack leader that Fenrir would ever be. "Okay. You have a good day, Laurel," she said brightly.

Laurel answered that with a glare, disheartened, and walked towards the side of the house on her original business.

Caleb only then dared touch his neck and consider the blood on his fingers. "Mad little bitch, now isn't she?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, usually, but if Carrow's coming back it means she's back out in the cold, so to speak," she said, looking at the wound. "It's not too bad, it's not bleeding that much."

"No, no problem. There's a former Healer in with the bastards, I'll just get him to fix it. Not that I, er, spend much time with the bastards."

"Yeah," she said, with an odd half smile. "Spend it all arguing with Aaron, I expect."

"More than I'd like. You all right?" he checked.

"I'm fine," she said. "Not a scratch."

"Not what I meant. You looked a bit shaken, 's all."

Because with every other part of this plan, if one person did not behave how the four of them thought they would -- and that now included Laurel, more than ever -- there was a strong possibility that it would all go up in smoke and a lot of trouble besides. "I'm fine. She pressed my buttons with Ben, is all."

"Good, great," he said, "now let's go before she tries to impose a curfew on us and slap me around some more."

"Oh fine," she said, and playfully pinched his cheek before leading on.

~*~

Wesley's main task was to take care of the children, a task he quite relished, and something his Father valued highly. The children were the future of the unified pack, and once they knew what was right and what had to be done to keep everything the way it was meant to be, the success of the pack would be assured. That was what was in his hands every day he attended to the children, he knew, and there was little that was more important.

"Wesley!" Nora called, and dragged her friend Brian behind her as she ran towards their caretaker. "WESLEY THEY DON'T BELIEVE ME BUT I HEARD IT'S TRUE. Is it true?"

"Well why would it be true?" Kelly demanded, in hot pursuit after Nora and Brian with a number of the pack kids, waiting to see what her Father Wesley would say. "She left, she ain't comin' back, Wesley, tell her it ain't true."

"But it's got to be true!" Gemma yelled, a little too gleeful at finally getting to play her big part -- and keeping one hand firmly around Rory's wrist, who she thought looked like he might bolt at any second.

Brian shook Nora's hand off of his wrist, hurried to Wesley's side and shouted over the others, "Now don't be stupid, it's all just stupid rumours, that witch can't ever come back! Tell 'em it ain't true so they shut up about it and we can play games!"

"Good morning, children," Wesley began with a smile, amused at the children's conduct, and ruffled Brian's hair. "What are these rumours, everyone sit down, one of you tell me? Just one. Gemma!"

The children obediently seated themselves on the floor. Called on, Gemma stayed on her knees so she could be seen over some of the other, larger kids. Even though she was one of the older ones, she was still quite small. "Okay," she said, ready to explain. "So. We heard that before the wizard left last time he and Remus was just talking, right, on the way out the door and he said Miss Carrow was comin' back."

"But she ain't!" Kelly broke in again, which was met with some quiet murmurs of agreement.

"Are you callin' _Remus_ a liar?" Nora said loudly, in her best imperious, older-kid tone. "Better not! I keep tellin' them, Gemma an' Rory an' I _know,_ isn't it true?"

The accusation of calling the first of the pack a liar -- Kelly hadn't precisely thought of it that way -- quieted her, and Gemma nodded enthusiastically. "An' you know the wizard hates coming here anyway, he don't say much unless he means it. He doesn't have any reason to lie!" she said. She resisted the temptation to look at Rory, they'd agreed it would be a lot more effective if he just agreed rather than did so after prompting from her.

Rory spoke up the second that Gemma finished speaking, eager to just get the statement out so he wouldn't have to do it again. "Yeah, and you know everything, Wesley, so it's true, right? She's coming? Miss Carrow was so nice to us even if she was a witch." He made a face.

Wesley looked at the children blankly for a moment, until he saw a look of confusion dawning on a few of their faces, and only then did he force himself to say something. "Miss Carrow..." He hadn't heard a word about Alecto returning, but there could be any number of reasons why he hadn't heard, each one more disturbing than the next. "Miss Carrow might be returning, it's true. She's thinking about it," he invented. "Wouldn't that be great fun?"

"YEAH," was the overwhelming agreement. It was immediately followed by the buzz of talking between two or three of the children at a time, and Gemma shot Rory a grin that would easily be mistaken for excitement. But damn was she proud of him.

"Yeah," Rory agreed, and grinned at Gemma, giving her a nudge in the side. "Great fun."

"Good! Come with me, we're going outside," Wesley stage-whispered to them, and pushed the problems out of his mind. They could be dealt with later, when the children were finished for the day. "Unless there's anything else someone wants to share?"

Gemma made a sudden decision. "YES," she called, and saw Rory's brow furrow out of the corner of her eye. "I told Sky and she said she heard that too and she said Laurel saw her and Caleb yesterday and she said Laurel didn't believe it, she don't want to believe Miss Carrow's comin' back."

Wesley looked at the girl. Gemma was likely the quickest and most observant of the children, even if she was from Ben Skoll’s pack; it wouldn't do not to trust her. "Children, we have to take everything Laurel says with a very large grain of salt," he said. "Laurel is a trusted friend of Fenrir's, but she's still unnamed, and you know that unnameds cannot be fully trusted."

"So if she's unnamed why does Fenir trust her?" Kelly asked.

Gemma made a face. "Who cares." Anyone from Skoll's pack was especially sensitive to any talk of unnameds being untrustworthy or otherwise less than a named. But of course, they couldn't say anything.

Wesley wondered that himself, sometimes, more and more. "Without Laurel, Remus and I wouldn't be here, helping you, helping all werewolves. She was very helpful to Fenrir a long, long time ago. And she still is," he added quickly.

"There are _degrees_ and _exceptions,_ " Gemma said. "Usefulness to the pack is important, right Wesley?" She looked up at him with a broad grin.

"That's right, Gemma," Wesley said with a smile and a nod. "We're all here to be useful to the pack, because then we're happy and everyone's happy. And that's for the best. Laurel might be an unnamed, but she helps the pack, and so we tolerate her. The unnameds do help the pack, in their own ways, but they're still beneath us. Barely werewolves." He pulled a face. "But you're special, all of you, because you're named, because you're connected to the pack."

Gemma looked around at the rest of the kids, mostly because she couldn't stand to look at Wesley anymore. There were some nods of understanding from the older kids, although the younger ones were listening intently. She looked at Timothy Pittiman, now keeping his younger brother and sister close, each of them less blank and more frightened than the last. "I want to go outside now, can we?" she asked. It was the only chance they really had during the day to have some sort of free conversation without the possibility of Wesley or any other adult listening.

Wesley nodded and rose to his feet. "We should go outside! There's too much to see and do, come along then, all of you!" He gestured for them to follow and rushed out of the room, comforted by the children despite being disturbed at their words.

The room filled with the sound of all the children rising with varying degrees of excitement and vigour, and Gemma grinned at Rory again. "You did good," she whispered.

"I know," Rory whispered back with a confident grin, climbing to his feet quickly as they filed outside.

Time passed fast, too fast, outside with the children, and Wesley herded them inside in preparation for the next meal, screaming, excited little kids that they were. He paced the hallways, hand by nature drifting near his hip and the knife waiting there as he patrolled, but he stopped immediately at the sight of Remus talking to the girl Briony, not knowing quite what to do. He uncertainly wandered over, considering Laurel who brooded nearby, but waited for a good time to speak to Remus.

Briony stepped closer to Remus as she felt Wesley pass behind her. She knew he wouldn't touch her unless there were orders and if there were orders they would certainly be loud and she would see them coming for miles, but he still made her nervous whenever he was near. "I'll go," she said. 

Remus squeezed her elbow, terribly sensitive to her proximity ever since she'd made her comment in his room after the four of them last met. "You're fine," he said.

"He's waiting." Her voice was even lower. She smirked slightly. " _Lurking._ " 

The corners of his mouth lifted briefly. "See you then. Be careful."

"I am always careful," she said dryly, mirroring the small smile. She left Remus for elsewhere, anywhere else, and he regarded Wesley, silently granting permission to speak first if he was, as Briony seemed to think, waiting.

Wesley watched Briony leave, and his hand left its place near his knife as he approached Remus. "I hope I didn't interrupt something important," he said, lowering his head in deference.

"No, nothing," he answered. "We were just talking."

"That's what I thought," Wesley said, careful to make no insinuation. "I only meant to ask something, if I might trouble you for a minute."

"No trouble," Remus said. "What is it?"

Wesley hesitated. _You know everything, Wesley, so it's true, right? She's coming?_ he heard the child say. If only. "There are rumours," he began. "It might not be of any importance."

"About... Alecto Carrow," he said carefully. If everyone else was doing their job -- which they undoubtedly were -- that was what he would be hearing.

Wesley felt the blood rush from his face. "Yes," he said after a moment. "About Alecto. That she's coming back."

Remus nodded. "Well, good news travels fast, I suppose," he said dryly, and swallowed. "Yaxley mentioned it when he left last time, I could hardly believe I heard it myself."

He didn't know what to think of that, and couldn't hide his surprise. "Is it for sure, then? Does Fenrir know?"

"Not unless he's heard too," Remus admitted. "I... wasn't certain whether saying anything or not would be the wiser course of action. Or Yaxley told him too."

"Oh." Wesley shifted, awkward, uncomfortable with the paranoia now lingering in the back of his thoughts. No, he couldn't afford to pay them mind. He lowered his voice. "Laurel is afraid of her return. Of Alecto's return."

"Well. I should think that's hardly surprising," he said. "Briony didn't like it either."

He took a long pause, almost fearing to speak his next words. "I ... I feel it necessary to suggest that you be careful around Briony, Remus. Rumour has it you two are ... close."

Remus couldn't help but blush a little, even if Briony was right when she said rumour would spread and if the rumours were false. He pulled out his best imperious tone, and said, "She's Conor's. We trust Conor. Even if some of the things she says are... not in line with pack ideals, she's not going to be real trouble." He hated how he wasn't even startled at how easily the lies came to his tongue now.

Wesley wanted to speak, but there was that tone, and the fear of retribution -- even unjustified -- was well-ingrained in him. He closed his mouth and reconsidered. "I hope you're right, for all our sake," he said finally, and touched the wolf to Remus's in the most brotherly way he could manage.

Fenrir stalked into the room, scattering a small crowd that had gathered at the door, and called. "Remus!" With a terse gesture, he summoned his first son over along with a harsh yank at his wolf. _Remus._

The pull started in Remus's brain and ended at his feet, strangely paralyzing but propelling him to move all the same. "Yes Father," the words jumped from his throat as he followed his feet.

Wesley watched Remus rush to their Father, tilted his head, and let his gaze fall upon Laurel, who stared at the two wide-eyed, and knew what he was meant to do. He took brisk steps and soon stood right in front of her, staring down at her. "Laurel," he said flatly.

Laurel turned to him as though she hadn't noticed him looming, or hadn't cared. "Wesley," she said, in the same half-severe, half-bemused tone as always.

He held out his hand and spoke before he could reconsider. "Give me my knife. The one I borrowed you."

Her faint look of camaraderie vanished into hostile confusion. "What?" she demanded, her voice rising.

He drew his own knife and put it to the artery in her neck. "Give me the knife, Laurel. I want it back."

She stared at him, and once she saw the determination and distrust in his eyes, she twisted her neck away from the knife and pulled her own, holding it out to him, handle first. "I don't need it," she said crisply, and left the room in a tense, frightened half-run.

Once her footsteps had faded away, Wesley looked to Fenrir and swallowed hard. As his Father reached out without words, just with a look and the harsh pull of the wolf, he just said _Yes. Yes, it's true._

Fenrir looked askance to Remus and clapped him on the shoulder. "Too much to talk about, to do, come on then."

Remus nodded once. "Yes, all right," he agreed.

~*~

The meeting of Fenrir's inner circle was tense, short, and almost useless, and Fenrir was starting to think that all the paranoid whispers of a conspiracy might have had some truth in them. Things like this didn't happen in a pack with an unquestioned authority. He stared at Laurel as she walked past him without even a glance, and halted Conor as he approached. "You come with me," he ordered.

Conor couldn't pretend he was totally startled, although the idea that he was going to be Fenrir's confidante was new. "Of course," he agreed, letting Fenrir pull him towards the largest room on the upper floor. 

Fenrir shut the door behind them and looked to Conor after a moment, not liking the bemused look he saw on Conor's face. "What?" 

"Nothing." Nothing at all was good about this situation. Something bad was happening, they all knew it, and it was all going to end in a few pointless deaths and Fenrir's continued reign. "Was there something you wanted to say, Fenrir?" 

"There are rumours, Conor." He walked to the window of his room and looked out at the hills surrounding his pack house. "Too many rumours, stories about -- well, don't doubt you've heard." 

"I try not to listen to rumours, you can't learn anything from rumours except that people are nervous, and I've told you time and time again that your pack is nervous about the impending war on Hati." Conor made himself be patient, to speak in deference. "It's a lot of nonsense, whatever they're saying." 

"They're saying that Alecto is coming back," Fenrir barked, with the edge of a growl in his voice. "They're saying some people in this pack want to end my reign and destroy this pack, they're saying that there are some of my _most trusted_ people working against me, what do you think of that, Conor? Or do you want to call me paranoid, and a liar, eh?" He glared back at Conor. "Do you?" 

Conspiracies, the witch, sabotage. It struck Conor as too convenient, too pat, too easy. He chose his words carefully. "I don't want to call you that, but if it's what you are, Fenrir, you're better knowing and doing something about it than pretending you're not." 

Fenrir stalked towards Conor, standing right in his face, speaking directly to him, "I'm the leader of this pack and any rebellion will be crushed," he snapped. "Anyone who questions me _will_ pay the consequences. Do you hear me, Conor? I don't trust you bastards, you and Laurel, I don't trust you! You're the ones, aren't you? The bastards are all a waste, the lot of you!" 

Conor didn't rise to the bait, change expression, or give any indication he'd heard Fenrir at all besides a quirked eyebrow. "I assure you, Fenrir, that I am not leading a rebellion against you. Just as you, my pack matters more to me than anything else." 

"You don't have a pack, you never did." Fenrir patted Conor's cheek and stepped back, staring him right in the eyes. "No unnamed can ever rule a pack, no unnamed, no woman. You were all just waiting for me to bring you into a real pack, and now's the time." 

_Madman._ He hoped Fenrir couldn't see the thought pass through his mind, and stayed calm in spite of Fenrir's panicked, searching wolf attempting to agitate his own. "There's no rebellion against you. You've crushed what rebellion there was time and time again." But thoughts were stirring in Conor's mind, ones he didn't want to consider. The distance Briony had kept between them, the mutterings in the common rooms, maybe they had mattered after all. "I promise you that no such rebellion exists, and if it does, I'll find it myself," he finished with the slightest smile. 

Fenrir said nothing for a moment, appraising, wary, before grabbing Conor by the throat and shoving him hard against the door. "This is no laughing matter," he snarled into Conor's face. "And if I find you have anything to do with this I'll see your pretty little bitch dead within minutes by the hands who killed your heir, do you understand me?" 

"Loud and clear." Conor kept control, though it was getting increasingly difficult. "I have things I need to do, Fenrir, is this all? Accusations?" 

Fenrir hit him across the face, hard, and only then backed off. "Go." He turned away and went back to the window, gripping the windowsill. 

Conor half-ran down the stairs and managed to stop himself from acting like a petulant child by the time he reached the foot of the stairs. He took a slow breath and searched the house until he found Briony sitting by Skoll's first, Skylar, in some form of deep discussion. "Briony," he said, grasping at their tie, forcing her to notice and give him full attention.

Briony stopped in mid-sentence to Skylar. As sudden and hard as the pull had been at their tie, Conor need not have said a word, but as long as she had known him she'd never heard him say her name with such urgency. She paid attention. "Y-- yes," she stammered, looking up at him and thrown off guard.

He looked at Skylar for a moment, his anger starting to simmer just then, but he turned to Briony and took her hand. "Come with me, _now._ " Another, harder pull on their tie was unnecessary, but he didn't even hesitate.

She winced and gave a small, involuntary noise at the discomfort. Skylar withdrew even as Conor was pulling Briony from her seat and out of the common area. Briony was unsure of whether she should even say something in acknowledgement of his order, but decided it was hardly merited and followed.

He led her into the nearest loo and closed the door, twisting the faucet so the water would drown out their conversation for anyone who might dare to follow and listen. "Briony," he said, "I am going to ask you one question, and you are going to tell me the truth."

The tension in the tie kept her silent, her face flushed with anxiety as her heart rate raised. "Okay," she said.

He took her by the shoulders as he spoke. "Is there a group within the unified pack attempting to sabotage Fenrir's reign?"

As red as her face had been, it went white in a matter of seconds. She felt Conor's fingers dig into her thin shoulders, and her mouth opened but she couldn't make herself either give an honest answer and betray her comrades or lie to her Father. "I... I -- I can't -- "

Even if she meant to speak lies, her face gave the most honest answer. "Who is it? Is it the Curenton bastard? Are you _part_ of this? Are you?"

"I am," tumbled out of her mouth and she kept her gaze down. She had the wild thought that she could possibly minimise damage right now, but it seemed more ludicrous with every passing millisecond.

He released her, stepped back, and considered her, with only the sound of running water between them for a long moment. "I had hoped you would be honest with me," he said finally, and reached over to the faucet. "I'll speak to the bastard and we'll have no more of this." He twisted the faucet off, flung open the door, and went to find the sorry boy.

She made herself follow after, daring to pull back at their tie for his attention and the chance to speak. "It's not what you think -- "

"It's exactly what I think," he said sharply, openly lashing out at her with the tie now. "Don't lie to me again, Briony."

Briony should have expected that but she hadn't, and she bit her lip to stop the sob already leaving her mouth. Tears escaped and tracked down her cheeks all the same, but she wiped them away quickly. She rushed to catch up with him for whenever he found Jeremy.

Jeremy was recovering from a bout of laughter at something Sky had said when he noticed Conor walking towards him, and that was the last thing he saw before Conor took him by the shoulder and literally dragged him out of the room. Surprised at a complete lack of witnesses and amazed that that somehow managed to be the first thing he noticed, he asked as soon as it occurred to him, "What the hell is going on?"

Conor didn't bother answering; he simply shoved the Curenton into the room, ushered Briony inside, and shut the door. "We're going to talk," he said, as he picked up a nearby chair.

Jeremy eyed the chair. "I, er, I have no idea what we have to talk about..."

Conor wedged it underneath the doorknob and turned to look at the boy. "Don't get clever with me, Curenton, I know your sort."

"Jeremy." Briony stood off to the side and bit her finger to keep from saying anymore, but gave him a look. _I'm sorry. I can't lie to him, not even for all of us._

Jeremy looked at Briony and straightened. "He knows, then," he said, as though this turn of events didn't faze him at all.

She nodded, looking quickly at Conor, back to Jeremy, and down to the floor in hopes of some kind of relief.

Jeremy felt badly, for a moment, and wanted to comfort her or something, but now was not the time. He reached out to her wolf with his own, though, in some gesture of apology. "I'm surprised you didn't suspect it sooner, I didn't have to twist her arm or anything," he said to Conor as he did.

Conor stepped forward, irritated when the boy didn't even react at the intimidation. "Don't be flippant. This is serious. Do you even know all I've done to keep my people safe, and you're just throwing them into danger?"

"I don't make anyone do anything, Conor, I only take those who want to fight and put them to use. I had hopes you'd have a similar mind but it seems you'd rather live under Fenrir's rule as a servant with no risks instead of fighting for your own pack. No wonder you lost the war," Jeremy snapped, and took steps forward to approach Conor face-to-face. "I'm going to end this delusion of Fenrir's, you just watch me, and -- "

Conor hit him. "Don't you ever speak to me like that," he said, "or you'll get worse than that. You're going to get my girl killed, or worse, my _entire pack,_ because they suspect I'm the leader of this rebellion, don't you understand?"

Jeremy touched his cheek, but the news was more startling than the pain. "They suspect you," he repeated.

“Conor," Briony said in a tiny voice, though she didn't dare reach out for his wolf as she might have done otherwise.

Conor exhaled, and reached out to her when she didn't reach out to him. "I told him I would see the end of it," he said. "And I hope to. You're going to end it, Curenton."

"Like hell I am, we've nearly won," Jeremy said impatiently, brushing the command off easily. "He's paranoid, he's distracted, and we're well on our way. Don't panic, Conor, we're doing well." His tone lightened. "Briony, tell him."

"He won't like it, Jeremy," she said, pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands in anxiety. There were large parts of this plan that she knew Conor wouldn't like at all; there was a reason she hadn't told him anything.

Jeremy looked at Conor, who wore an impassive expression, and took that to mean agreement. "You're telling me you'd rather be part of this cult than have your own pack free? If it was me, I'd do anything to get my people out of here. Actually, that's what I am doing -- "

Conor went to go stand next to Briony, and touched her shoulder. "What are you doing?" he asked. "What is it you're so afraid of me knowing?"

"It's not just us," she started quietly. She spent a very long moment considering how to continue, and her speech was stilted at first but it began to stream out of her. "Remus is also part of it, and Sky, and two of the kids. We've -- we've been spreading the rumours that the witch is coming back, it's an absolute lie, but it's all so that we can create enough doubt about Laurel that we can..." She couldn't make herself say it, disappoint Conor again, but she couldn't put it on the rest of them completely. She'd agreed to it. "We're going to kill her."

Conor snorted at that, unable to keep his amusement silent. "You think you can get away with that? You'll be dead by Wesley's hands within an hour of discovery."

Jeremy spoke up so the pressure wouldn't fall on Briony. Besides, it was his plan. "We're not going to kill her. Fenrir is. Or he'll give the order and Wesley will kill her, either way."

"Filthy little plan you have there," Conor said, looking at Briony, "destroying your enemies without a fair fight. You would do better to slit her throat yourselves. Why does she need to die?"

She swallowed and glanced down, hair falling into her eyes. "She was the largest threat." She didn't know what else to say.

"She _is_ the largest threat, and she _is_ going to die," Jeremy said. "She's the only one who can see us for what we are, the rest are blinded by rank and superiority. It's survival, and it'll weaken Fenrir's inner circle -- cause more paranoia, more problems -- it's the best solution."

"You're as bad as him." Conor gripped Briony's shoulder and yanked the chair away from the doorknob. "Let's go," he said gently to her.

Briony wanted to protest; it would work, they'd been working on this since winter before last, it was careful, and would work. But she couldn't let herself speak more, she already felt wretched by playing the ungrateful daughter. Even if it wasn't how she really saw it, it was how Conor's disappointment and anger had made her feel. "Yes," she said hoarsely, but touched Jeremy's wolf before they left the room. _Trust me, I'm not abandoning this._

Conor released her shoulder and stopped her after a moment of walking, pulling her into a loose embrace. "I forgive you," he whispered. "Do what you believe is right. Just don't get caught." _I'm sorry._

She latched on to him in return, breathing slowly to control her agitation. "I'm sorry," she whispered back. "It'll be okay. It's been... we've been doing this for a long time. It's fine. I promise."

"Don't promise," he said. "Just do what you can. I trust you."

She nodded into his chest, and she had the sudden compulsion to give him news now that he knew everything else. "He -- Jeremy -- he went to Hati's pack, and... Jane's there, with Patrick. They went to Ben Skoll after we were attacked and they went to Hati. They’re okay."

It struck Conor, and hard. He hadn't even indulged himself with thoughts of his niece in at least a year, and now news, finally news. "Oh. Oh, thank God." He held her close. "We'll all be together. The lot of us."

"Yeah, we will be," she said, more sure than ever that it had to be so.

"You don't need to be afraid. I'll help." _It's survival,_ the Curenton had said, and Conor was no idiot; apparently his own survival hinged on this as well, to save him from suspicion. "Now come on, we have arrangements to make." He released her and took her arm, leading her to seek out the members of their pack.

~*~

_June 1981_  
Lily pushed open the door to the cottage by the sea that they held their meetings in, James right behind her. "I know she said that it was no bother at all, James," she said, continuing their discussion from before they Disapparated. "I just don't like leaving Harry for any amount of time. Hello, anyone here?" she called to the house. "First ones," she added.

"Well, the Order does need the both of us every once in a while, he's fine without us just for a bit, so you don't need to worry. So don't worry," James reassured her, and threw his summer cloak onto the cloakrack with practised ease. "I bet Moony shows up. Hasn't been a word about werewolves for a whole week now in the Prophet, you know."

"Ran out of words to say, I expect," she said frostily, opening windows to get some air moving in the otherwise stuffy house. It was a warm July, but there was a breeze off the water. She hoped Remus showed up, she hadn't stopped worrying for what felt like ages. 

He followed her. "It's just the Prophet, Lily, you know they're more full of shite than a Snape on trial."

James was probably lucky that two more _pop_ s of Apparation saved him from more than Lily's gimlet eye, but her withering look had said it all. "Hello?" she called out, her hands on her wand in her pocket, just in case.

"Hello," Frank called back, letting Alice enter in front of him. "Early, I see," he remarked, as if this were some small act of god. Granted, how their lives had been going lately, it nearly was.

Alice, however, was pleasantly surprised. "I don't remember the last time we were early to a meeting. Lily! Is it just you, then?"

James sent Lily a grin. "No, I'm here!" he called back.

"Not for lack of trying," she said, squeezing James's sides, exactly where she knew him to be ticklish. She moved around him and went to the door to greet Alice and Frank. "Lovely to see you," she said. "How's Neville?"

"Oh, he's lovely," Alice said warmly, "he's a real darling, so sweet. I hate to leave him alone with his grandmother, but he'll be fine."

"Mother adores getting to spend time with him, you'll hardly put him down for five minutes whenever you have him," he told Alice, kissing Lily on the cheek. "How's Harry?"

"Growing like a little weed, and the most perfect child to ever be born to hear James talk about him," Lily answered, rolling her eyes. "So be careful how you ask him that, you might sign up for an answer you don't have time for. I can't believe they're going to be one already at the end of the month."

"One year old and already a genius," James said, and anticipated the look from Lily as he went on wearily, "and that's it for the bragging, I swear. I swear."

"I looked at the calendar and it's not been so long since the last meeting, but we've had our troubles at MLE so it's felt like years." Alice took a seat in one of the plush chairs. "We have a lot to tell."

"Oh yes," Lily said. "We've been reading all about what sorts of trouble you've been having."

Frank smiled wryly. "No offense, Lily, but the _Prophet_ doesn't really scratch the surface. But maybe that's just my biased, overworked viewpoint."

"The _Prophet_ is reporting every other word that MLE tells them, and everything that Crouch tells them, which is that everything is fine and we're winning the war, except we need more funding," Alice said grimly.

"I figured as much," James said with a shrug. "Who trusts them anyway? Can't trust anyone these days -- well, except us."

Lily looked at James. She supposed her naivete was showing, although it would be nice to be able to trust the mass media. "Yes, well, and apparently not even all of us," she said dryly, pointedly looking away.

That was startling talk. Alice sat up and paid attention then. "What do you mean?"

"She means Remus. They don't trust Remus. _You_ don't trust Remus," James said, looking at Frank. "Sometimes I think we're the only ones who do, Lily."

"I don't trust Remus," Frank repeated, an affirmation. "I don't trust him further than I can throw him. He withholds information but insists that it can help. I get suspicious of anyone who could put someone like Fenrir Greyback away and isn't. It's wrong."

"He has to have his reasons," James said sharply. "He would never keep anything from us unless he was literally _unable_ to tell us. This is _Remus_ we're talking about, Frank, not -- he would never be one of them, he'd sooner die."

"Your faith in him is inspiring," Alice said gently. "But, perhaps, misplaced."

Lily bit the inside of her cheeks; she wasn't going to argue the point. It was unlikely that they would make any headway arguing with Frank and Alice, and there seemed to be no point to making it a tense environment.

There was a soft sound out front of Apparation, and footsteps in the front hall. "Hello?" Remus called tiredly. It felt strange to be away from the pack, and all the cloak and dagger business therein, only to walk into the cloak and dagger business of his wizarding friends.

James looked immediately to Lily and called, "Hey Remus! In here! See, he showed," he added to Frank as though this instantly proved Remus's innocence.

Frank did not respond, but rather exchanged glances with Alice. There was a pan of fish that did not need frying, as his mother would say.

Remus followed James's voice to the front room and looked between Lily and James on one side and Frank and Alice on the other. It didn't take a sixth sense to perceive the tension in the air. "Good evening, everyone," he said, managing a smile. 

"Remus," Lily greeted him, and the relief in her tone was undeniable. "Here -- come on, sit down, we haven't seen you for ages." He looked tired. He always looked tired. But aside from that he looked whole, and that much was enough to calm her for now.

"Yeah, we were worried, mate. You missed two whole meetings, a lot's happened, I'm sure you know." Including more attacks -- of course Remus would know. James shook it off. "You'd better be around for Harry's birthday or we'll never forgive you."

"Ah, the thirty-first." Remus remembered. Not that he had forgotten, but he had definitely been preoccupied. "I would like to be there. I'll keep it in mind."

Frank muttered something about a cup of tea and moved out of the front room, back to the small kitchen. Remus looked at his shoes for a moment but did his best to keep what was left of his dignity intact. The Longbottoms didn't trust him, he knew it, there was naught to be done about it. Thankfully, Lily saved the rest of them from more tension or finding anything else to say. "He's grown so big, Remus, you'd hardly believe it. He can take some steps now if someone is helping him, and he's so _loud,_ talks all the time -- "

"Gets that from James, I expect?" Remus asked with a slight grin.

"Maybe! Also the brightest little bugger in the whole of England, gets that from me too," James added proudly. "And he'll be on a broom by age three if I have anything to say about it." He glanced up at the sound of more Order members arriving, the soft buzz of conversation in the front hall, but grinned at Remus. "Missed you, Moony."

Remus reached out to touch a wolf, and felt foolish when he of course felt nothing. It was grasping at air. "It has been a long while," he conceded, but gave a grateful smile.

"Other people are arriving. I'm sure they'll be relieved to see you," Lily said, squeezing his hand. "We're not the only ones who worry, you know."

"You're the only ones who do so loudly," he returned wryly, but squeezed her hand back.

James couldn't have been more relieved, except that Peter's and Sirius's words had stuck with him, but he couldn't afford to think like that. Remus was _back,_ that was all that mattered, right? He smirked at Remus and went into the front hall, calling, "Hey, Remus is back!"

Peter ran inside and nearly plowed right into James, who scoffed and stepped back. "Really?" he asked, trying to look past James for a look.

"Really," James said with a nod and a grin, and spoke more confidently than he felt. "I told you lot that you were wrong, here he is."

Remus tried not to read too much into what James said, but it was difficult. He instead forced himself to smile at Peter and said, "Hello, Peter."

"'lo," Peter said, forcing a smile and doing his best to look a little frightened. "How've you been?"

A loaded question. "I have been worse," he settled on.

Peter wore a confused look. "Uh. All right, well, I hope it gets better," he said uncertainly.

James looked between them and shrugged. "Come on! The meeting's probably about to start."

The next room was practically alive with the noise of people waiting for the meeting. "Yes," Lily agreed, pulling Remus up with her and the four of them drifted through the foyer to the dining room where everyone could be seated. 

"So then the Unspeakable turns to the bartender and says -- oh, hey," Sirius stopped in the middle of his joke to Marlene McKinnon. "Moony," he greeted specially, carefully.

"Hello, Sirius," Remus said, getting the same vibe off of him that he had gotten off of Peter, one of guarded mistrust.

"He's back. And he'll be at Harry's birthday," James said, as though the conversation about his loyalty was now over.

"Great," Peter said, with obviously false cheer.

And Sirius would be watching Harry every second in that case. "Oh right, my godson, the most brilliant thing to walk the face of this earth."

"Oh yes, I forgot to mention," Lily turned to Remus, and rolled her eyes good naturedly. "To listen to James and Sirius talk about Harry, you would think that they were sharing a girlfriend or something."

“Yeah, my _son_ is going to be even more brilliant on a broom," James was saying to Sirius, but Peter just tried to catch Lily's eye and give some indication of warning. Unfortunately, Dumbledore chose that moment to walk into the meeting room.

"What'd I tell you, children," Lily said to Remus, as they all sat down and Dumbledore called the meeting to order. He smiled gently, and focused on his erstwhile Headmaster. If he did so, he could tell himself that the wary looks were figments of his imagination. A paranoia, nothing more. 

Alice had begun to notice that the meetings were increasingly ending faster and achieving less besides instilling an equally increasing sense of doom and futility in the Order. This meeting ended the same way, and she put her face in her hands before looking up at Frank and abruptly standing. "Let's go," she sighed.

"Wait!" Peter cried, as he saw Caradoc Dearborn heading for the door. "Wait, okay, I had an idea, it's just an idea, um -- " Every once in a while they would tolerate his ideas, and he could only hope they'd tolerate this one.

Sirius Black was making eyes at Marlene McKinnon again, and she just finished flashing her wedding ring at him again -- good-natured joking, nothing more, she knew, but the levity was almost out of place after the recent meetings. She looked at Peter Pettigrew. "Yes, Peter?" she asked as the Order stilled for the one last piece of business.

Peter pulled a camera from his pocket and raised it so everyone could see it. "I thought we could -- I dunno, take a picture -- just in case -- "

"In case we all forget how fucking good looking we are? Excellent," Benjy said, tipping his chair back to all four legs. 

"You might need help with that, some of us need no reminder," Sirius called out, and there was a cascade of laughter that followed.

"Brilliant idea!" James cheered. "Come on, everyone by the wall!" He grabbed Lily's hand, and shot Remus a grin.

"Yeah, so the Death Eaters'll know who we all are and what we're doing?" Moody barked through the carefree buzz of voices. "Don't think so, Pettigrew!"

"Oh," Peter said, slowly, as though he'd only just realised that. "We'll keep it here in the cottage, sir, how about that?"

"C'mon, no harm in that," Benjy agreed. "Let's go, line up."

"What is this, a shooting gallery?" Edgar Bones demanded with a measure of black humour.

"Need a cigarette first?" Frank returned.

"How about a blindfold?" Fabian Prewett put in.

"Not unless you take me to dinner first," Caradoc interjected.

"Oh for God's sake," Dorcas sighed.

"No one needs to hear that." Marlene made a face. 

"No kidding, line up and shut up," Lily joked.

Peter ushered everyone into line, even Hagrid and Moody and Aberforth Dumbledore, and conjured a stand. He stuck the camera there, set the time, and ran to go stand next to Remus, who he made sure to edge away from. "Smile!"


	20. The Sticking Place

_As of late the Ministry's luck has slowed in their fight against the Death Eaters. The death of Royce Wilkes and arrest of Evan Rosier by Auror Alastor Moody was a windfall, but appears to be more of a fluke than a plan. For a time the public was hopeful that more arrests would follow if Rosier cut a deal with law enforcement, but there is a certain honour amongst villains -- at least while they still hold the wizarding world in terror. Secrecy, it seems, will continue to be their greatest strength._ Bridget Wells, "No Further Death Eater Arrests," _The Daily Prophet,_ 2 July 1981

_June 1981_  
Even though she was still getting crap about kicking the Curenton kid's arse, Jane took their patrol more seriously now than ever. She was walking along the edge of the woods that grew along one side of the house, her wand in her hand and keeping her ears and eyes open for signs of any intruders. It had been quiet, but that didn't mean much. It was light later and that made it easier, so she didn't have to strain to see in the dark. She saw David approaching, making his walk in the opposite direction. "Anything?" she asked. 

"Nothing." David stopped and considered the horizon, twirling his wand between two fingers. "I'm just as vigilant as anyone else, Janie, I know we have to check, but we don't have to have our full arsenal out here every night, do we? We know they're not about to march on us and they'd be stupid to send just one or two werewolves at us." He stuck his wand behind his ear. 

"Well, the day we're not all out here is the day that something will go wrong," she said, stopping in front of him and crossing her arms. "Murphy's law. Things that can go wrong, will, especially when you're not looking after them. And don't call me Janie." 

"So if we patrol, then nothing will ever go wrong," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Am I really supposed to believe that? Well, at least we've got you to break noses and take names." 

"Of course not, but we're not going to be caught with our fingers up our noses." Jane rolled her eyes and turned her head as she heard not one but two cracks of Apparation not far from the tree line, slightly behind her. 

David drew his wand from behind his ear and stepped past Jane, ready as always for a fight. "Who's there?" he called, just in case. 

One of the approaching figures raised their wand in deference and called, "Don't kill me, Jane. Please?"

David began to laugh, but stifled it after realising his back was turned to Jane, who could easily hex him for being an arse. "Curenton!" he called, instead. "Haven't seen your arse in weeks!" 

Jane rolled her eyes and gave a small noise of derision. "I'm not going to kill you," she greeted, pocketing her wand again. "Unless you try to kill me. Then the bets are off." She glanced at the smaller, dark-haired girl at Jeremy's side, also with wand in hand. 

"Why would I kill you? You're our secret weapon," Jeremy said with a broad grin, and tucked his wand into his belt as they approached. He slid his arm around Julia. "David, Jane, this is Julia. Julia -- David and Jane. Where’s the rest of your little brute squad?" 

"Hi," Julia said, ever the somewhat awkwardly shy girl with not much to say. Some things seemed to never, ever change.

"Hi," Jane replied mildly. She had spent enough time with werewolves to know a non-werewolf when she saw one, and the girl was a witch – she was holding on to her wand in one tight fist. "Dunno, they're probably around the other side of the house if this patrol business is working like we think it is." 

Jeremy heard footsteps, glanced behind him, and ducked just a moment before a hex flew over his head. "IT'S ME, IT'S CURENTON, STOP THAT."

David started to laugh again. "Nice shot, Adam!" 

"You moved!" Adam accused Jeremy, but was grinning widely. "Hey, Curenton. I thought I'd try and take my hit before Jane used _Reducto_ and we were picking up pieces."

" _Ha, ha,_ " Jane said and concluded her sarcasm with sticking her tongue out.

"And these are your friends?" Julia asked Jeremy uncertainly. 

"They're my friends, I'm their target, it's a strange relationship but we make it work," Jeremy said wryly. "Julia, Adam, Adam, Julia. And there's Edward, now there's enough for a party!"

Edward climbed the hill and grinned at Jane on sight. "Jane left him in one piece this time, impressive use of restraint." 

"Jane didn't get a chance," Jane answered. 

"Only because David saw him first and because I took the first shot, I bet," Adam said, and he nodded at Julia. "Come to see my mother?" 

"Yeah, we're here on official business," Jeremy said, doing his best to keep the mood light but appropriate at this point. "Julia's my fiancee, and will soon be my envoy. Don't kill her, either."

"I hope she's got a good Shield Charm in case," David muttered under his breath, and Edward coughed to hide a laugh. 

Jane elbowed David sharply in the ribs. "Everything clear on the other side?" she asked.

"Yeah, and the woods is clear for meters, no worries," Adam said, coming on the other side of Jeremy and clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, we'll take you inside," he added as they drifted away from the tree line and towards the house. "It's been boring as hell since the last time you came, we mostly give Jane as much crap as we can about it -- "

"I'm going to give you the same treatment if you don't shut up, and I'm going leave you out here and no one is going to blame me," Jane said, brandishing her wand. Adam lifted his hands and gave a mocking, girlish scream. 

Jeremy sent Julia an amused look. "Welcome to Hati's pack," he whispered to her. "Hati's even worse." 

"Oh, I can't wait," she said dryly.

"Mam's not so bad," Adam said. "She means business, though, so you just can't let her know you're scared." 

"Much easier than it sounds," Jeremy pointed out. "She has those eyes. And I’m stuck with Fenrir Greyback and his crew of mad people, so I'm not exactly easily intimidated."

"Hati's not scary because she's mad, she's scary because she's sane." Edward caught up with the lot of them and walking next to the girl Julia. "Perfectly and utterly sane, and she can see through lies with a look. It's why you don't lie to her," he confided in the girl. "Don't even try." 

"It -- hadn't occurred to me," Julia assured him, and tried a small smile. "Any -- anything I have to say is going to be coming from Jeremy."

"Yeah, because it's not going to be her broomstick handle over your arse if she catches you in a lie," Adam said, making a face.

"Childhood memories?" Jane asked lightly.

"Oh yes. Fond ones," he replied dryly, opening the front door of the house for all of them. 

"Is Ben here?" Jeremy said to Edward, then he called into the house, "Ben! Ben's great, you have to meet Ben," he added to Julia.

"Ben's here," Edward said belatedly, a bit amused. "I'll go get Hati, though, she'll want to know you're here." 

"... Okay," Julia said slowly.

Ben heard his name called from the back of the house where he was in conversation with Tom, Hati's husband. He excused himself quickly to Tom (who was used to the come-and-go way that things generally worked about the house) and pushed his way through the swinging door to the front of the house. A short walk down the hall and he looked into the foyer. "Jeremy," he greeted with a wide grin and immediately reached to his wolf. "I see Jane let you pass through unharmed."

"God, that is never going to die." Jane rolled her eyes. 

"Nope," Adam and David confirmed in unison, and laughed. 

Jeremy's wolf reacted favourably to the touch, and Jeremy just grinned. "It's good to see you, it's been too long. Sky's amazing, I have to say, just amazing. Useful," he added, when he realised how it might sound. 

"My Sky is that," he agreed with a smile. God, he missed her. Soon they'd be back together, all of them. "It's good to see you too. Who did you bring with you today?" he motioned at the girl. 

"Julia. My fiancee," Jeremy explained, sending her a smirk. "Who is gracious enough to become my envoy to this pack, since four or five days a month gone from the pack is getting a little suspicious." 

Ben threw back his head and began to laugh, a great deal harder than he had in a very long time. Julia turned crimson, unsure of how to take it, not quite angry but definitely slightly irritated. "Why's that so funny," she murmured rhetorically.

"My apologies," Ben managed through his laughter. "My apologies, Julia, I'm not laughing at you. Jeremy finally came to visit us this spring and he said that he was engaged to be married, I could hardly believe that _Jeremy Curenton_ found a girl who could stand him long enough to agree to marry him. Turns out she's real." That she was a witch seemed even more incredible to Ben, but wonders never would cease.

"Listen to that. Arse, who takes that kind of crap? Kick him into next year, Jeremy, go," Adam urged jokingly. 

Jeremy drew his wand again and flicked it in Ben's direction, with a crooked smile, then shoved it into his belt again. "She's a real catch. Finds half-suicidal activists to be attractive." He kissed Julia's cheek. "No need to blush," he whispered to her. 

"Telling me not to blush only makes the problem worse, love," she told him, and indeed she felt as though all the blood in her body had migrated to her face and neck.

"Again, my apologies," Ben said. "Anyone Jeremy thinks is worthy is certainly a friend of mine."

"Thank you," she said, undeniably pleased. 

"She's helping my parents out at the Den," Jeremy added. "Of course, it's not as though she could help it, my parents will recruit anyone who sits still long enough and doesn't spit in their faces, but I think she actually _does_ think we're people," he joked. 

"Sometimes," Julia returned in a deadpan. "Other times I wonder. But your mother does feed me, so I keep going back." 

"She makes the best stew. When this is all over," Jeremy said seriously to the world at large, "I'm inviting you all over for a bowl of my mother's stew." 

"I won't move for less than two," Adam said. 

"God you're a moron," Jane said, jabbing him in his side with her wand and moving past them the way that Ben had come from.

"Sounds fantastic," Ben said, as though neither of them had spoken. "First, it needs to be all over." 

Hati descended the stairs from her room, Edward trailing behind her, and stopped to consider her sons. "Where is he?" she asked them calmly. 

Adam turned to look at his mother. "Here, with Ben," he said. 

"Hati," Jeremy greeted with a warm smile. "Good to see you, I know it's been a while but I've been terribly busy -- "

Hati gestured Edward away and stepped between her sons to approach the boy. "Spare me, Jeremy," she said, not unkindly. "What is it you're here to say? We're both busy, and I'm sure you can't be gone too long from the _unified pack_ without catching the eye of one of Fenrir's vultures." She turned her gaze to the girl beside him, but said nothing yet.

"You're right," Jeremy said, nodding in agreement, and took Julia's hand. "I can't be gone too long, and that's the purpose of this visit. I can't visit you anymore." 

At the reaction of Hati's wolf, Edward spoke up and stepped forward. "You're leaving us behind, then, you're not going to bring an end to this? We don't understand."

"Not at all. I can't, she can," Jeremy said to Hati, who seemed to relax fractionally at the tilt of his head towards Julia. "Hati, I would like you to meet Julia. She's my best friend and my fiancee, and my envoy to this pack from now on. I have the business of sabotage to handle by myself, and, though bringing news to you is important, I can't risk discovery. Julia will bring you my messages from now on." 

Julia tried not to look nervous, she looked the woman in the eye (Edward wasn't wrong about the eyes, she decided) and nodded. Still, "Hi," was about the most that she could get out of herself. 

Hati considered her, then looked to her sons. "Take a good look at her. Make sure you don't kill her. I don't want him having to replace an envoy, nonetheless a best friend and fiancee, do you understand me?" 

Adam turned to look at David. "Yeah, David. Don't kill her." 

"I'm not the one who practically vivisected Curenton," David pointed out. 

“He moved, he's whole!" he gestured back. 

"All the same, I wouldn't like to be vivisected, thank you," Julia said politely.

"Oh yeah, she's going to fit in fine around here," Ben said to Jeremy, nodding. 

"You can trust her, I suppose," Hati said directly to Jeremy. "And I don't mean _trust_ her, as in with your life, but trust her to carry the message properly. No offence, child, but these things do matter."

"I think she can handle carrying one scroll of parchment, Hati," Jeremy said, unfazed. "She's a witch, she can defend herself, and she can Apparate quite close to the house, so long as no one's on the perimeter shooting hexes at unwary witches and wizards." He glanced at Adam.

"Better prepared than caught unawares, we learned a lesson from Conor's pack," David said, more soberly now. 

Julia was unsure that her track record of helping at the Den was likely to impress Hati, and so said nothing for a minute. "I'll leave my wand at the door," she said suddenly. "Whatever it takes for _you_ to trust me. I'm -- I'm doing this because Jeremy asked me. I would never presume anything." 

Hati casually reached for her own wand and disarmed Julia with a flick of her wrist, catching her wand easily. "Child, if you even so much as raised your wand to me, I would have you -- what's the word they used, Edward?"

"Vivisected," Edward supplied, with a half-smile.

Hati nodded and held Julia's wand out to her. "I don't think Curenton places his trust idly. I trust you. Just don't be a fool. And don't be so easily disarmed. This might not be as easy a task as you think it."

"They don't suspect me, Hati, they won't be watching her," Jeremy protested. "You don't have to scare her -- "

Hati approached Jeremy and lifted his chin with her wand, surprised when Jeremy almost immediately had his wand pointing at her. She raised an eyebrow. "Would you rather have her scared, or dead? Would you place your life or hers on that presumption of yours, that your brilliant strategies might not ever fail? Open your eyes, boy, we're dealing with Death Eaters. If they find out about her ... " She withdrew her wand, and held Julia’s out to her again. "Just prepare yourself for all possibilities, that's why _we're_ still here." 

Julia nodded calmly, despite the fact that her heart was beating in her ears and she was certain that everyone else in the room could hear it, too. "I understand," she said as she took her wand back from Hati's outstretched hand. 

"Good. We'll be expecting you. Curenton, I need to talk to you. Alone. Come with me." Hati caught Edward's attention with a tug at their tie, and he began the trek up the stairs. Hati nodded to Jeremy, then followed.

"I'll be back soon," Jeremy whispered to Julia, catching her in a quick kiss before he started off. "I told you she was something else, didn't I?" he added with a glance back, then went to this rather intimidating little talk. 

"Something else," Julia echoed, toying with her wand as she gazed at him as he climbed up the stairs. 

"Told you she wasn't that bad," Adam said with a lopsided grin. "You did great."

"Yeah?" she said. 

"Yeah. 'Course, getting through the obstacle course to get back will be interesting, but we've been given orders not to split you in twain..."

"Don't listen to him, they'll recognize you when you come back," Ben said to Julia. He had to admit, he was curious about the witch that would be the sort to be able to handle the little upstart Jeremy Curenton, she had to be of some kind of mettle. She glanced back up at him, and he smiled. "How about you come with me, Julia, and we can talk while you wait for Jeremy?" 

"You're Ben Skoll. He's told me some about you," she said leaving the foyer with him and going into the front room. 

"Well, I have to say that I haven't had a similar pleasure, my dear," he replied kindly, "but no matter. We'll be acquainted soon enough."

Julia made herself smile in response as she sat in an armchair. This was certainly nothing less than serious business to everyone involved, and that included her now more than ever.

~*~

_July 1981_  
All of the McKinnons were dead. Marlene, her husband, his parents, and his two brothers were dead with all indication of a struggle and a fight, the Dark Mark left over the house. They had wasted no time in laying waste to the family, and now everyone left in the Order was on their most guarded, their most cautious.

A waste of life. 

At twilight, Sirius Apparated into the front garden of the Potters’ house in Godric’s Hollow. He allowed himself a moment of temporary relief when he saw it still intact, lacking a Dark Mark over it, and as picturesque as ever. He waited for Peter to catch up with him and wordlessly approached the front door, knocking and waiting for an answer. 

"What's going on?" Peter hissed to Sirius, sticking his hands in his pockets anxiously. "I mean -- I heard about the -- the M-McKinnons, but, did I miss something?" He looked at the door again and tried to talk himself down inside his own head. He would find a way to deal with this. He would find a way not to go back to the Dark Lord and be tortured. He had worked too hard to keep his own family alive to fail them now. 

"Not out here," Sirius said tersely, waiting impatiently for an answer. He raised his hand to knock again when he heard Lily's voice on the other side of the door ask "Password?" 

"Some are living and some are dead," he intoned and the door swung open. 

Lily mustered enough of her energy to smile at Sirius -- and Peter. She didn't have a chance to shoot Sirius a questioning gaze however, as Harry made another play for her hair. "No, Harry, mummy's hair is not a -- OW -- toy," she said, disentangling one of his hands from her red hair.

"Give me that kid," Sirius said, plucking him neatly from Lily's arms and tossing him over his shoulder as the boy gave a shrill giggle. "Bringing the kid to the door, Lily?"

She gave him a half-smirk. "Well. I figure at this point if the Death Eaters are coming after us, they're not going to bother knocking on the front door. They're just going to blast the thing in." Her smirk faded and she took a deep breath. "Come in, come in, both of you -- hello, Peter." 

"Hi Lily," Peter said, his nerves too visible, and he looked away, to Harry. "Hey, Harry! He looks more like James every day, I swear." 

"Lily's eyes, though," Sirius put in, holding Harry up near the ceiling. 

Harry clapped his hands and gave another delighted giggle. "Yeah, yeah. It's probably for the best, redheads are known for being tempestuous -- JAMES, Sirius is here, he brought Peter." 

"YES," James's shout came from an upstairs room, and he barreled down the stairs to greet his mates. "Good, it was getting quiet." He glanced at Lily, then added, "Suppose quiet is better than the alternative, sometimes." 

"DA," Harry declared, looking around for the voice he recognized, and Sirius kept a tight hold on the squirming nearly one-year-old. 

"Quiet? In this house?" Lily joked dryly. "Sirius, be careful with my son." 

"You mean your earthworm," he said, still trying to keep a grip on him. "Okay, okay, dad," he finally conceded, handing Harry over to James. 

"That's more like it. Hey, handsome," James said to his son, and gestured for the others to follow him into the sitting room. "Yeah, I'd want to get away from that ugly face of Sirius's, too."

Peter sniggered then turned it into a cough, flashing an awkward grin to Sirius. 

"Why would you ever wish a face like James's on an innocent child, that's what I want to know," Sirius added. He was getting uncharacteristically nervous; they could talk about Harry only so long, brilliant little boy that he was.

"Well, let me tell you, there are nights when I think about that and just weep," Lily replied dryly, sitting by James on the couch and smoothing down Harry's hair. "Unfortunately, he got the cowlick, too." 

"You like the cowlick," James teased, bouncing Harry in his lap, then smirked as he ruffled his hair. 

"We need to talk," Sirius said suddenly, pushing his hair back, taking a look at his friends. He was cut off by a knock on the door. In a second, everyone in the room had their wand out -- except for Lily.

"I'll be right back," she said calmly, getting up from the couch as she ignored James's questioning look. "Password," she said calmly.

"Some are living and some are dead," Remus answered breathlessly. Lily had sent her Patronus message only last night, and he'd gotten away from the pack. By some miracle it had managed to become a night where nothing was going on, and he could actually come to his friends when they asked. The door opened and he shuddered slightly, pushing back at the wolf. "Hello," he managed.

"Are you all right?" she asked worriedly without preamble, ushering him in. 

_Worried, not sleeping, the usual._ "Fine," he lied easily. "What is it?"

Unusually short as well. "Just... come in," she said, taking him by the arm, and squeezing his hand. "I just wanted to..." _see you again,_ "well, come inside." 

James looked up in surprise when he heard Remus's voice, and then immediately looked at Sirius before he called, "Is that you, Moony?"

"Here we go," Peter said under his breath, looking up to catch Sirius's gaze. 

Remus stopped just inside the door of the sitting room, very aware of all eyes, even baby Harry's, on him. He glanced back and forth, unwittingly very much giving the impression of a caged animal. "Ah. Hello," he said.

"Hi," Sirius said coldly, crossing his arms in front of him but looking pointedly at Lily, who more than matched his frosty look. 

"Sirius," James snapped. Sirius's steadfast belief was starting to unnerve him, though. "Hey, Remus," he added.

"Where've you been?" Peter said, with forced cordiality. 

His favourite question. "Around," he said vaguely, and inwardly winced at how he knew it sounded. "What's going on here?" he asked, picking up on the underlying vibe in the room immediately. There was... hostilty. Distrust. Fear. The air was rife with it, it made the wolf nervous. 

When nobody else spoke up, Lily started. "Remus, we're -- "

" _Lily,_ " Sirius cut her off.

"This is _our house,_ Sirius, and Remus is our friend. We want him to, and if…” _If this is the last time we all see each other, I want him here for it._

Remus felt awful, he shouldn't be here. "If what, Lily?" he asked. 

James shifted Harry in his arms and moved to stand beside his wife in small comfort. "Lily," he said softly. 

Lily wordlessly took Harry from James, his familiar weight in her arms and breath on her neck as he nestled his head in there a comfort to her. "James," she said, and glanced up at him. Before someone else tried to interrupt or prompt or generally annoy her in some way, she turned back to Remus and said, "We’re just meeting, all of us – “ 

"And that's all you're hearing about it," Peter said sharply. "Come on, Lily."

“ – for mutual protection,” she finished. 

James _just_ managed not to yell, for the sake of his son. "You don't get to tell her what to do, Peter," he said evenly. 

"I think regardless of who knows, we can all agree that the fewer -- " Sirius's gaze flickered to Remus, "people who know, the better."

It felt attacked, and surrounded, and Remus couldn't blame it much. He took a deep breath, controlling. "Thank you," he said, touching Lily's shoulder, and nodding to James. "But, I don’t know that I should – “

She shook her head. "No, we’re…” Lily was finding herself frustratingly speechless and flustered and not able to talk. It wasn’t like her. “Because of the McKinnons -- "

"What happened to the McKinnons?" Remus interrupted. 

"They're dead," Peter said, looking at his hands. He sounded as exhausted as he felt. That was his fault, too. "All of them. Haven't you heard?" he added, his voice rising a bit.

"Now just hold on a minute," James snapped. " _Wormtail_." 

"Dead," Remus repeated hollowly.

"Dead," Sirius snapped. "Marlene, Josiah, all of his family. Put up quite a fight from the looks of things."

He leaned against the wall, one hand to his head. He should have known it would start somewhere. "I hadn't heard," he said, calm as ever in the face of hostility. 

"No, of course you haven't," Sirius added. "You're never around TO hear anything, why should we expect you to have heard anything?" 

"He's out there doing things just like we are," James defended, walking away from Lily to glare directly at Sirius. "Just because he's not _here_ doesn't mean he's with _them._ " 

"No one said that," Peter added hastily. "Sirius, what were you going to say before?" 

"Nothing," Sirius said flatly, holding James's gaze.

With them. The words played in Remus’s mind, they thought he was with them, with the Death Eaters. _Of course they think you're evil incarnate, they're wizards,_ he could feel the wolf becoming edgy. "I... I should go," he said.

"Remus," Lily started, but he stopped her by holding up a hand. 

"Yeah, I'm sure," Peter said under his breath. "Somewhere more important to be?" he spoke up. 

It was beginning to rattle him again in warning, like it had when he thought he might tell everything he knew about the Pack and its Father. "Far less important," Remus said, but they didn't need more reasons to not trust him. "Goodbye."

"Remus," Lily started again, chasing him into the foyer and seizing him by the back of his shirt. He stopped as she wrapped one arm around him awkwardly, Harry still in her other arm. "I don't care what they think, and I don't care what you're doing out there," she said softly. "Just be careful. When this war is over, it'll all pass and we can all be okay. It'll be like it never happened."

It was so very characteristically Lily, that he smiled in spite of himself. He covered her hand with his but quickly withdrew it as if he'd been scalded. _Get it off._ "The war isn't over just yet," he said. "You and James keep that baby safe, right?" 

"James," Peter said, his voice low so that Lily wouldn't hear and take his head off. "Come on, now you're just being stubborn. _Think._ "

James ignored Peter, even though the sentiment struck him hard. "What were you going to say, Sirius?" he asked. 

"Give it a minute," Sirius said. 

"Don't worry, he's gone now. I watched him Disapparate myself," Lily said coldly, over Harry's babble.

Sirius let himself feel badly only for a second. It wasn't his fault that Remus had separated himself from them, and you couldn't trust anyone these days. "Good," he said, watching Lily settled back with little Harry in her lap. There was business to attend to.

~*~

Fenrir couldn't deny that there was a lot to deal with, too much if you asked him, but he had no choice – and so the meetings with those he trusted went from weekly to nightly soon enough. Tonight, Laurel met him first, then Remus, then Conor, but Wesley was still missing. "He'll be here soon," Fenrir said shortly as Laurel opened her mouth to speak. "Silence, Laurel, whatever it is, I don’t care."

Remus eyed each of the room's occupants in turn. Wesley being conspicuously absent was growing more and more unnerving with each passing moment. He was used to Wesley being there when he came in to the meeting, silent and vigilant, and him being gone was undoubtedly a sign of something Not All Right about to happen. For good measure he cast a glance at Laurel that could be taken as quelling. She might not trust him but she wasn't going to say anything to him, not in front of Fenrir. 

"I wouldn't worry, Fenrir." Conor spoke up with a note of amusement in his voice. "He's probably just talking to the children, you know how he gets with them. He's quite effective with them, really."

Laurel almost visibly bristled. "Don't patronise him! Don't you speak about him like that, Wesley's invaluable to us."

"That's enough," Fenrir barked, sending Conor a frosty glare. "No more nonsense out of either of you, it should only be a minute." 

Not even a minute. Heavy footsteps and indistinct voices could be heard outside the door, coming up the stairs. "Like he said," Remus said dryly, and the door burst inward before there could be any answer. 

Wesley flung open the door and threw Jeremy Curenton to the floor without a single word in preface. As the bastard winced on the floor from the previous assault and his head suddenly meeting the floor, Wesley looked to his Father with a slight smile. "Father, I have something to say, if I might," he said. 

It was probably lucky that everyone was too busy looking at Jeremy prone on the wooden floor, because they didn't see Remus's eyes widen. To cover it, Remus looked back up at Wesley and then to Fenrir. He trusted his tongue to lie for him more readily than the wolf at that moment. "Let him," he mildly urged. 

Fenrir nodded to his second son after Remus spoke. "Go on, don't waste our time, I hope this is good," he said. "You're late, Wesley."

"I had to find him, Father, and it wasn’t easy, he's... he's always everywhere talking to everyone, that's how I know. That's how I _know_ he knows something, or he's doing something, it's the rebellion, Father." At the flash of recognition in Fenrir's eyes, Wesley knelt in front of his Father. "Yes. I've been looking for the rebellion that we've heard so much about and I think I found them."

Laurel scrambled to Wesley and Fenrir’s side, and it was almost like before Remus and Alecto and everything else, though the very thought of Alecto burned -- but no matter. "It's him, I knew it was him, him and Conor's girl and -- and likely _Conor himself,_ and Skoll's first, we can't trust any of them!" 

Remus looked to Conor, his face unreadable but surely thinking. Briony had told Remus about Conor finding out, on the stairs, in the dark while the pack had slept. She'd said little of it, but enough for him to know the elder werewolf must have understood this was bad news as well. "Calm down," he snapped, unsure of who he was talking to. He immediately backtracked, taking his mental place in the pecking order, deferential to Fenrir and above the rest. "Rumours, Wesley? Accusations over rumours." 

Wesley looked to Fenrir, who simply sat back and said nothing against or for Remus, appraising them both. The challenge would be how to make this not seem a challenge, how to suggest to the first that he was right without forcing it on him. He felt himself grow nervous. "Some rumours are just rumours. Some rumours are more. You yourself know that." 

"He's not defending _Curenton,_ he's defending his _girl,_ " Laurel said, barely hiding her contempt. "Fine, it might not be her. _Might._ She's never tried to hide her disdain for us, you know, but -- " 

"But she knows that putting herself in danger puts me in danger," Conor cut in. "She wouldn't do that. Briony wouldn't do that, nor would she put Remus at risk like that. Don't be foolish, Wesley, don't jump to conclusions." He tried not to look at Curenton, because he had known long ago that this would be the end of things, but it didn't mean he wanted to see it. 

Remus was so pleased that Laurel had picked up on what he was hoping they would in this incredible improvisation, but didn't let it show. "And _I_ said she wasn't going to be trouble," he said forcefully. 

Fenrir pulled at the tie and stared at Remus. "I hope not, if my heir ends up dead by the hands of a rebel there'll be hell to pay. Do you hear me, Conor? If your little first -- "

"I hear you, Fenrir," Conor said calmly, now watching Curenton. The boy lay still, staring across the floor, his expression absorbed in thought -- there was perhaps a chance yet, if a small one, Conor thought. "Wesley, what is it you meant to do with this unnamed, or did you just mean to entertain yourself?"

"You don't get to speak to me like that," Wesley said, tone poisonous. "You don't get to say things like that to me, _bastard_ of the Greyback pack."

"Enough," Fenrir shouted. "Wesley, make your point, I've had enough of this bickering!"

"He knows something," Wesley snapped in defiance, climbing to his feet, and buried his boot in Curenton's ribs just to punctuate his point. He stared down at Curenton as the unnamed whimpered in pain. "This nonsense will _end_ once we discover the conspirators, Father." 

Remus didn't dare reach out to Jeremy, not in this room, but he looked down at him. He was thinking, always thinking, but the wheels were spinning overtime. "Then go, make your cross-examination. Let's get this over with," he said impatiently, but undeniably nervous. 

"Don't worry, Remus, she's fine," Fenrir said, just as impatient, and brushed off Laurel as he stood to observe. "Go on, Wesley. You've claimed this role as yours, then do it."

"Curenton!" Wesley knelt on one knee beside the bastard, not remotely touching him. "Can you speak."

Jeremy had endured worse. He had. He could handle this. He nodded fervently and a moment later said, "Yes."

"Then you're going to tell us what you know about the conspiracy within the pack," Wesley said, and suddenly one of his knives was in his hand. He took a fistful of Curenton's curly hair in his hand and yanked his head back to bare his neck, so the knife would fit in just the right sweet spot to draw the most blood. "Tell the truth, you sorry little bastard, I'll know if you're lying."

By nature Jeremy found himself twisting away from the knife, unable to resist some fear, but he controlled it. For the most part. He looked around, half-frantic as the fight-or-flight response kicked in, but mostly to see the faces -- Fenrir impassive, Conor blankly observant, Remus rather the same, and Laurel utterly absorbed. Ah, yes. He kept his eyes on her. "Don't kill me. Don't let him kill me!" 

The instant Jeremy said it, Remus saw it. _Yes, brilliant._ He shoved any squeamishness left away out of necessity, and looked sharply at Laurel. "What is he talking about?" he asked her. 

And just like that, Laurel saw not only Curenton's eyes on her, but Remus's, Fenrir's, Wesley's -- then they were all looking at her, criticising. "I don't know," she said, "I don't know why he expects me to spare him, I'll slit his throat myself -- "

"Oh God," Jeremy groaned, pitifully stirring and nearly cutting his own throat with the knife. "Oh God, please, no, don't let them do this, I'm sorry, Laurel -- "

"Stop it," Laurel growled, and crawled towards him, drawing the second knife from Wesley's back pocket. "Let me handle this, I'll show you how it's done -- "

Just as quickly, Wesley's knife was at Laurel's throat. "What is he talking about?" he repeated Remus's question. "The first of the pack asked you a question, Laurel, and you avoided it." 

" _Laurel,_ " Remus pressed, hoping to fluster, even anger her. 

Laurel tossed her head and gave a scornful laugh. "You are _not_ the first of this pack," she snapped at Remus. "If it wasn't for me you never would have been bitten -- Fenrir, you know that, I’ve been yours to command since the day you bit me, since that perfect day, Fenrir. We've been together, Father and daughter, since that day, and this, this is the _most ridiculous_ thing I've ever heard. If you're trying to call me a traitor, that's mad, that’s _nonsense._ I'm the furthest thing from a traitor. I'm yours, forever yours."

Fenrir approached her after a moment, discerning, but disturbed by her words. "Remus is the first of this pack," he said. "Are you disputing that?"

"If you want me to. Fenrir, I'll do anything for you, I always have and I always will, anything you want," Laurel stressed. "I would never -- go on with the Curenton, this is insanity." 

"Challenging the first of the pack, Laurel?" Remus asked casually, although backed away a little, slowly. Even though Wesley had his knife at her throat, he wasn't willing to take a chance. 

"Don't retreat, Remus," Fenrir said lightly. "She's a woman, an unnamed, and you're armed. You'll win. She can't be foolish enough to try."

Laurel looked at Wesley, but the knife wasn't about to move. The knife clattered to the floor as she fell to her knees at the look she saw in Fenrir's eyes. "Fenrir, please," she begged. "Please, you know that all I want is success for the pack, for you -- success won by werewolves, as your Father Greyback said, not by wizards -- we -- trust me, Fenrir, trust me."

Jeremy scrambled away from her as her foot landed inches from his face, and he ended up in the corner, staring at the most powerful werewolves in the pack. "You told me, Laurel! I didn't want to, I was scared, Miss Carrow had me convinced but you said you could fix everything, and we would run the pack then, and -- you told me this wouldn't happen and now you're just going to let them kill me so they don't kill you! Well sod that!" 

Remus made himself look at Laurel and be unmoved, kept himself the heir of the pack they thought he was. "Is that true, Laurel?" he said. 

Laurel shook her head fervently, and spoke to Fenrir instead, crawling away from Wesley and clutching at Fenrir, reaching for his hands and stung when he crossed his arms to keep them from her. "He's an upstart, you've always known he's an upstart, he's a _Curenton,_ a wizard, a waste -- "

"An unnamed," Wesley said, tone as sharp as one of his knives.

"I'll tell you everything if you don't kill me. Don't kill her," Jeremy interjected in a panic, pressing himself against the wall. "Don't kill her, please, she's just scared, she's scared of Miss Carrow, and if Miss Carrow doesn't come she won't do anything -- don't kill her, I'm sorry, Laurel, I'm sorry."

Fenrir looked down at her (just as it was meant to be, he supposed) and felt _filthy_ and betrayed. "Jealous little bitch, aren't you," he said. "Jealous of Remus, jealous of Alecto. Jealous of Wesley, no doubt."

"Cut the melodrama, Laurel, I think your cover's blown," Conor said, eyeing the supposedly wretched boy in the corner. 

Remus was not allowing himself to wonder how exactly things were going this well. It would be frightening if he did so and so he kept his focus. "He gave you all up, Laurel, why do you keep on?" 

"Because that's what pack does, you -- even when your Father takes a witch into his bed or a wizard as his first, you trust him and do his work and love him, Remus, that's what you do," Laurel said, gripping the fabric of Fenrir's trousers in her hands as she stared up at him. "That's what we're meant to do, you would know that if you knew a single thing about pack, _Remus._ "

Fenrir pulled his leg away from her grasp and shoved her away with a kick, rolling his eyes as she collapsed in tears. "Wesley," he ordered.

"I'll slit her lying throat now, Father, so we don't have to hear this anymore?" Wesley suggested grimly, as he came forward. 

Fenrir held his hand out to Wesley, who stared for a second before holding out his knife. He pulled Laurel to her feet and grabbed her by the hair. "We'll kill her in front of the pack. Make an example of her. The three of you, go, gather them, they'll want to see this." He leaned close to Laurel to whisper, "I knew you'd be the end of me, if I let you."

"Are you letting me go?" Jeremy dared leave the corner, still clutching at his side. "I swear I'll never do it again, she only told me that the unnameds would win -- "

"Wesley, thirty-five," Fenrir said, offhand. "Do it now. Conor, Remus, gather the pack." 

Remus didn't want to see any of that, and left the room quickly before Wesley could start, barreling down the stairs two at a time. He went first to the common area. "Everyone, out here. Now," he said shortly over all of the conversation, which immediately hushed.

"Remus?" Gemma asked in a small voice from Skylar's lap, and found Skylar's hand over her mouth before she could say anything else. He looked at Skylar and gave the smallest shake of his head, indicating to give nothing away. 

As Conor pulled the door shut, he saw Curenton fall from the third of over thirty blows to come, and closed the door with the shake of his head. There was worse to come, as he followed a sobbing Laurel and emotionless Fenrir down the stairs to greet the expansive unified pack with a public execution. "I don't know who's going to clean up the blood," he muttered -- being that it was usually Laurel's job. Fenrir, however, didn't seem amused.

"I didn't," Laurel said in a small voice, throat hoarse, and so desperate. "I didn't, I love you, Fenrir -- "

"Another word and I'll cut your tongue out first," Fenrir said, voice flat, and hauled her into the sitting room, drawing first blood against her throat (and he barely recalled her light hair on her collarbone so many years ago). "So! There are rumours of a rebellion, right? Everyone's heard. Well, those rumours are right, my children. They're right. And here we have the leader of the treachery. A _bastard,_ who's surprised." 

"You've got to be kidding me," Caleb said to Aaron, but apparently much louder than he'd intended, and now Fenrir was looking at him. "Er."

"No, it's true," Fenrir said to the pack, over the pitiful sobs that Laurel managed to get out. "Don’t hunger for power, don’t be jealous of your betters, you bastards and women, because this is what you get. You become a traitor. And I don't stand for traitors." He looked out to the crowd that was his pack. "I'll spare the rest of the rebellion, I know who you are, just change your minds and I'll forgive you. But it's too late for your leader." He leaned in to whisper into her ear one last time. "I don't need you anymore," he said, and began to cut her throat, not stopping even when he felt nearly soaked with blood. 

The only sound in the room that might have drawn attention away from the spectacle was Gemma, who screamed and turned away, burying her face into Skylar's neck. Skylar paled as well, leaving her cheeks with only the slightest bit of colour in them. She kept one hand on Gemma's dark head and reached for Rory's hand with the other. They hadn't known, she hadn't told them... all they'd known was their part, and now they were witness to _this._

Briony pressed a hand to her mouth, unsure whether it was out of shock of the sight or that they had _done it._ She didn't look at Conor, couldn't bring herself to, and so watched the blood and life drain out of Laurel.

Remus stood in the doorway, perfectly still and horribly drawn into the moment. _They_ had facilitated her murder, sure as though all of them had had their hands on the knife with Fenrir's. He was no better than the Death Eaters, surely. He couldn't even make himself step out of the self-loathing he was slipping into, it was easier than dealing with all of this in front of him. Either way, Laurel was going to be dead. The wolf was beginning to agitate him, as much as it ever had before he'd come to the pack. He lashed back at it, unwelcoming to it. 

"Conor," Fenrir snapped, and as the older man stepped forward, he shoved Laurel's body into his arms. "Deal with this." He stuck the knife in his belt and surveyed his pack. "Do you understand now?" he shouted. "You won't win, because this is how it's _meant_ to be. Don't be ungrateful. I was merciful this time, I won't be again." He left the room, and the puddle of blood that now stood in the center, grabbing Remus by the shoulder as he left. "You did a good job," he said, approving in almost a parental way. 

Remus wanted to be ill. He had never wanted to be so ill in his entire life. But Fenrir expected a reaction, so he made himself say it. "Thank you." 

Fenrir put both his bloody hands on Remus's shoulders and sighed, as though a whole new burden rested on his shoulders. "It gets easier," he said with a half-smile, and clapped him on the shoulder again. "Go on, look after the pack. Conor and I have work to do." 

Remus shuddered and nodded. He moved away, aimlessly going to the next room and slamming the door shut. The pack would look after itself for a moment while he collapsed into a chair. After what felt like hours of catatonia but couldn't have been more than a minute he tore his shirt off over his head and took out his wand, Scourgifying until all hints of the blood were gone. He would have to live with the metaphorical blood on his hands the rest of his life, he would be damned if he was going to live with the actual blood on his shirt a second longer than necessary.


	21. Rocking the Boat

_Each month we sit, waiting for a reprieve from the terror shown us from the most willful of beasts: feral werewolves. But no reprieve comes. It's not a very promising thing to say that the best you can do the morning after the full moon is thank Merlin that this month, it wasn't your child, wasn't your family, but parents around Britain all think it._ "What Will The Ministry Do About The Werewolf Problem?" _The Daily Prophet,_ 31 July 1981

_July 1981_  
It had been days since Fenrir had cut open Laurel's throat to be an example to others who would seek to overthrow him. But of course, she hadn't been part of the real plan. Just a cog. A dead cog. And Remus still felt sick over it.

He shouldn't have felt anything. They'd agreed that it was something necessary in order for their plan to work like it had to. It was improvised from the moment Wesley threw Jeremy into that meeting of the inner circle, but it worked out. Amazingly, it had worked. Jeremy's arse had been thoroughly kicked into next month, and, while he was going to live, you wouldn't have known that to look at him. It was just another price one of them had to pay to see this through -- or at least that's what Remus figured Jeremy would say. It sounded like something he would say.

He still felt wretched, and he supposed that was something unlikely to change. While he didn't want to appear as though it bothered him as much as it did, or the reason for it, or his worry for the other saboteurs... it was a lot to keep contained in himself. He stood at the window in the upstairs corridor, and he watched the children in the yard with Wesley. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, as though he could keep it all in.

Fenrir sat alone in his room until he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, and forced his heir to come to his side. He lashed out over the tie against both Remus and Wesley, shoving the chair back as he stood and stalked out of his room, only to find Remus standing there. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Remus kept from crying out at the discomfort that hit him over their tie. He didn't want to care about it but it was immediate and painful. "Nothing," he answered honestly.

"Not much to do, is there," Fenrir sighed, putting his hand on Remus's shoulder as he looked out the window as well. "There's... there's things to do. Damage control. People will always try to steal any bit of power they can get, it's just a matter of showing them you're the best one to wield it, and that's what we've got to do."

Ironically, he was right. There was not much to do, not until their brain of the outfit was up to operating. That wasn't what he meant, though, obviously. "It's certainly left an impression," he replied neutrally.

"Well, there's still the bastards to handle. She had a nice conspiracy going, judging by Curenton." Fenrir watched Wesley sweep one of the kids up and over his shoulder, and gave a short laugh. "I think you might be the best to handle that situation," he added to Remus.

He immediately nodded. "I will," he answered. It would be an easy enough thing to go to the unnameds, and then tell Fenrir that he'd successfully scared them all into submission.

Fenrir leaned against the nearby wall instead, ignoring the window and his son outside. "She helped me save you, you know. I thought she believed in the same things, but just like the rest, she fell victim to her nature."

Yes, because the way you saved people was by breaking into their houses and dragging the four-year-old boy out of his bed. Saved. "Maybe we are all nature and nurture makes no difference at all," he said, still looking out the window.

Fenrir considered that. "You were raised as a wizard, and you came to me. She was raised with me, and she betrayed me. All the more reason you should be grateful you are what you are and not what your wizarding father meant you to be."

Remus didn't know if that was true or not. He wasn't sure what Alexander Lupin may have intended or hoped, except that Remus not be what the father's hasty words had done to the son. And that had never been so much as outright stated. "That may be true," he allowed, although not for the reasons Fenrir had assumed.

"I should have named her, but I was too young, and she nearly died -- I nearly broke her in half, my Father said, but she lived. I'd worried I'd killed her. If I'd known that naming her would have kept her from becoming this..." He shook his head. "Always name them. Always. Wesley's always had a talent for it, he does it without even an effort. On occasion..." He shrugged. "I forget. It's fate, I figure. If they were meant to be named, they would be."

"Fate seems to play a part in a lot of what happens here," he replied. He wasn't sure how fate was reconciled with the effort that had gone into obtaining and naming him.

"Fate plays a part in everything, Remus," Fenrir answered, raising his eyebrows.

Remus didn't reply to Fenrir right away, and looked at his shoes instead. "But ultimately, our actions are our own," he finally said.

"I was saved by my Father so I could rule this pack, I heard one conversation that told me I had to save you -- and the Curenton lived so he could reveal Laurel for what she was and save the unified pack. Fate leads us to the actions that have to be taken by those who make history," he concluded, with a sigh.

Except it wasn't fate. It was a set of decisions made by people who weren't Fenrir himself -- which, Remus supposed, could be the definition he was working with. Not to mention saving the unified pack was the exact opposite of what Jeremy was doing. How could fate, if such a thing existed, be the tool of a lie? "Outside forces impact your decisions," he conceded.

Fenrir enjoyed this more than he should have, but Remus was a quiet boy -- a two-sided conversation where his heir shared his real opinion was rare. He didn't press or pressure, but just felt along their tie, the wolf giving its son an encouraging nudge. "Do you think I had a choice in what I did?" he asked easily. "Do you think I could have left Laurel alive?"

No, because they'd manipulated it. They'd spread the rumours, planted them in every ear from unnameds all the way up the chain to Wesley. Their plan had worked perfectly and the only end to that was her death. "You could have," he said, and then made himself add, "It was a choice -- an easy choice, you knew that leaving her alive left you weak and possibly in danger. But it was still a choice."

"The wrong choice isn't a choice, it's a mistake, I always think," Fenrir said casually. "There's the right choice, and failure. Only rarely do you get a second chance."

"But sometimes you don't know a mistake until you make it."

"That doesn't change the fact that it's a mistake."

"And until you realise that, it's just a choice that you made."

Fenrir grinned. "So they're just choices, not right or wrong. But if it's the realisation later that makes the difference between the right choice and a mistake, not ... reason or wits or knowing better, then the only reason you made the decision in the first place was the outside forces impacting you. Fate," he concluded.

It still didn't account for what you believed to be true actually being false. But as though standing in the upstairs corridor and debating philosophy with Fenrir Greyback wasn't absurd enough. "Fate," he echoed wryly.

"I overheard a conversation in 1964," Fenrir said after a moment, amused. "Only a little of it. But it was enough. Some bastards were talking about a man named Alexander Lupin, some comments he made. None of them could have done what I did -- Owen Curenton couldn't have -- but Alexander raised a werewolf as his own after calling them animals, all because I took the chance to show him the truth."

His father -- no matter what the wolf wanted, or what he insisted, Alexander Lupin remained his father -- had done that. For any other fault he had, he had kept him in his house. Others had not been so lucky, he knew. Remus nodded slowly. "Outside forces imposed on a child who knew nothing of it. I guess that is fate."

"You went to Hogwarts -- thanks to _Dumbledore._ Help to the poor and needy so long as they're convenient," Fenrir sneered. "Gives help to the Muggleborns..." He dismissed that. "You went to Hogwarts, you saw firsthand what wizards can be like. You're lucky to be one of us, to have a pack. Fate had me save you."

Remus had no answer to that. Wizards could be awful, people could be cruel, there was no changing that. They could also be amazing. There was no other word for people who would become Animagi to keep you company on a full moon.

"You should go settle the pack, the unnameds. Report back to me at your leisure." Fenrir clapped him affectionately on the shoulder, his wolf giving Remus's an appreciative push. "If you see Conor, tell him I want him up here. No rush."

It was, at least, something to do. A reason to speak to Skylar directly without fear of suspicion, and to find Briony. "I shall," he said, turning away from the window.

"Good." Fenrir shut the door, closing himself into solitude until Conor arrived.

~*~

Julia sat back on the couch in the Den, watching as Jeremy and his mother were... she wouldn't precisely call it an arguing, but it was an unusually animated conversation, even for the Curenton family. They'd been at it for fifteen minutes straight and the conversation didn't sound like it was likely to come to a close anytime soon.

She sighed quietly and glanced at Owen, who caught her eye over the top of _The Daily Prophet._ He gave her a sympathetic glance and attempted to break in, but he was unable to fit in a word edgewise.

"I don't care about the wedding," Jeremy burst out finally, irritated, and stood despite that his mother was staring at him in that critical way that made him feel like a bad person. "That's -- it's hardly the part that matters, Mum -- "

Brighid's mouth dropped open at this, but she shut it abruptly and stood to speak. "You're being ridiculous, just wait another month, Jeremy, it won't kill you to plan ahead a little and do something nice, will it?"

Jeremy gripped the sleeve of his robes in his hand as he spoke, forcing himself to sound a bit more civil, but it came out in razor tones. "I'd like to get married before I die, that's all.”

Julia took in a sharp breath, clenching her hands and feeling her fingernails dig into the heel of her hand. "Jeremy," she let out the breath, her stomach clenching. Just because it was the undercurrent of the moment didn't mean she wanted to hear it.

"I think," Owen started calmly before they could go for round twenty, putting down the paper, "that this can be discussed calmly. Jeremy, your mother is just thinking of the two of you. Brighid, they're adults and perhaps you could be a bit more... open to what he’s suggesting."

One week ago, Jeremy had been certain he was going to die, and he'd waited a week past that to even attempt the journey back to the Den because he looked too much like death to even return, and he couldn't stand to wait any longer. He wasn't safe. They weren't safe. It had all gone too well. "Mum," he began, but then turned to Julia. "It's not too late, the proper Ministry departments should still be well open. We'll have to go to Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures first, deal with the waivers and all the paperwork, but it shouldn't take too long. Let's go."

She hesitated for only a second, but it was only her habit that made her do so. She nodded quickly and stood as well. "Let's go, then," she repeated.

"Jeremy," Brighid snapped out once she realised what was going on, but softened when he looked at her in anger. "I -- " She pulled him into a brief embrace. "I'm sorry, go on."

Jeremy exhaled and patted his mother's back, kissing her cheek when she released him. "It's fine. We should go," he added to Julia. "Who knows how much paperwork they've added since I last checked."

"Well, you haven't given them time to come up with more, so having the element of surprise on your side may work for the best," Owen said lightly. 

Julia cast a quick glance at Brighid. She didn't look angry anymore, neither of them did, and she tried not to worry about it. They were getting married, now, tonight. With any luck she'd be Julia Curenton in some time. "I'm sure it'll be no time at all."

Jeremy took Julia's hand and twined his fingers in hers, trying a smile on, then genuinely smiling. This was going to be good. "We'll be back soon," he added to his parents, still looking at Julia.

"Sooner you go, sooner you can return," Owen advised them as he gave Brighid a smile. She looked fit to burst all the same, but it was a look that he undeniably loved.

"Okay, we're going!" Julia gave a short laugh, and began to pull Jeremy out of the room with her. She had a hard time believing exactly how things progressed.

They walked in silence until they reached the door and Jeremy finally said, "Sorry," just a touch contrite.

He need not have said anything. "You're not allowed to make that face on your wedding day, Mr Curenton," she said, kissing him briefly.

"I don't deserve you," he said, now smirking.

"Now's not the time for cold feet," she returned, opening the door and exiting as she talked.

"If I have any faults, getting cold feet isn't one of them." He kissed her hand, released it, and Disapparated.

She rolled her eyes and followed behind him, Apparating into the Ministry atrium. It was mostly empty in the mid-afternoon, most people well at work in their respective offices, and Julia took his hand again as the crossed the tile to the lifts. "So, exactly how much paperwork do we get to look forward to?" she asked casually.

"There are five forms that I know of," he said. "You won't want to know the details of what they're saying, so just sign 'em, basically it's the quick route of stepping through the loopholes in the law that makes it impossible for a beast like me to marry a nice witch like you."

"Okay," she said, calling a lift. "Ignore the details and sign. I can do that."

"I had to punch something after I finished my research on it, personally," Jeremy went on, a bit distracted by this now.

She squeezed his hand and leaned her head on his shoulder, silent until a lift arrived for them with a _ding._ "It's awful and unfair. But it'll be worth it."

He nudged her gently and ducked his head away from some memos that joined them when the lift door opened at Level Six, Department of Magical Transport. "You know they can set these to explode if someone who isn't Ministry touches them?" he said conversationally to Julia.

"I didn't know that," she said, glancing up at them as they fluttered around above their heads. "Probably smart, though, depending on what's in them."

"Learned all about those charms from Mum, she used to work at _The Daily Prophet,_ so did Dad, you know that, anyway, she said that she got a nasty burn from one like that once."

"I've heard some stories," she said. "A lot about the coffee fetching."

"Or coffee-spilling, I've heard that one once or twice," he said, just as the door opened and the lift announced, "Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"Or coffee-spilling." Julia's hand tightened around his as they stepped out onto the floor. "Well,” she said.

Jeremy squeezed her hand. "It's okay," he said quietly to her. "It's nothing. They don't matter."

She nodded. She kissed him on the mouth. "Then let's get this over with and then go do the fun part," she joked.

He gave her his best stupid grin and glanced around to orient himself to the Department, finally conceding to speak to the secretary. "Hello," he began politely.

Nettie Fenwick thrust her copy of _Witch Weekly_ underneath the desk, embarrassed at having been caught with it. "Good afternoon," she hurriedly recovered. "Em, how can I help you?"

How to put this. "I need to speak to someone at the Werewolf Registry, there's some very particular forms I need as soon as possible."

Someone _wanted_ to speak to the Werewolf Registry? That was unusual for the smallest division of the Department. "I'll have to go see... didn't see 'em leave for the day, but no telling, you know." She seemed to mostly be speaking to herself, but looked up at Jeremy and Julia, smiling genially. "I'll be right back," she said, pushing her chair back and leaving them at the desk.

"Great," Julia murmured to herself, but instead of following up or looking to Jeremy, she looked at the edge of the sizeable desk, one finger tracing over the back of his hand.

The secretary returned sooner than either of them thought she might, and she was still wearing the smile. "I've got someone comin' out to see you, you can take a seat if you'd like," she said.

"I told you that these were to go directly to Miss Umbridge, Kenneth, and if you can't be trusted with one simple errand then perhaps you don't deserve to be working for someone so accomplished," a tart, girlish voice could be heard coming in their direction, and Isabelle Davis arrived at the desk just in time to hit Miss Umbridge's assistant with the paperwork he'd forgotten. She rolled her eyes at him as he scrambled to pick all the parchment up, and ordered, "Now go. Fenwick, what is it?" she added without looking up from the parchment she held.

Nettie opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted as Julia's jaw dropped and she choked out, "You!"

Isabelle turned at the exclamation, and her lipsticked mouth fell open in surprise, but it wasn’t long before she wore a smirk. "Oh, how lovely to see you, Julia. Still letting the dog sleep in your bed, I see. Some things never change."

This had to be some horrible, awful, cosmic joke. Julia was getting married today and Isabelle Davis was not going to be involved. _At all._ She ignored the bait and spoke to Nettie. "Is there anyone else back there we can speak to? Anyone?"

Nettie looked betwen Julia and Isabelle, genuinely confused, but decided to speak to the scary younger girl that she at least knew could possibly get her fired. "Em, they was just wantin' to see you about some forms," she said to Isabelle.

Jeremy subtly stepped in front of Julia and held a piece of parchment out to Isabelle. "I have the numbers if you'd like to just pull them for us." He couldn't resist, though, and added in a deadpan, "And you're wrong, she makes me sleep on the floor."

Seeing Isabelle had put Julia right out of the mood for jokes. Without changing her expression, she whacked him on the shoulder once.

The corner of Isabelle's mouth lifted at the face the werewolf made, and she pushed the piece of parchment away with a dismissive flick of her hand. "No, I know which forms you want. I wondered when you'd finally come here, come along."

Jeremy stuck the parchment in his pocket, containing his anger and squeezing Julia's hand hard. "There isn't anyone else working there?" he asked the secretary calmly.

"Em. No," she said, abashed, almost apologetic. "Smallest staff in the entire Department."

Julia tried not to be annoyed, especially with the secretary who clearly had no idea what was going on, but it was difficult. "Fine, thank you, let's just do this," she said.

Isabelle tucked her parchments close to her chest and gave them a wide smile. "Of course! Just follow me." She turned around with a flounce and walked in the direction that she'd come from.

Jeremy leaned over to whisper in Julia's ear, "It's awful and unfair, but it'll be worth it, remember?"

There was awful and unfair, and then there was semi-torturous, this was quickly shaping up to be the latter. "Right," she forced back. She kissed his cheek and pulled him down the hall after Isabelle.

Isabelle glanced back to see if they were following, and smiled when she saw they were. "The werewolves are all over the papers these days," she said to them. "Every full moon, more people dead or missing. I don't know why you'd want to marry a murderer, Julia."

Jeremy was the one to snap now, struck too hard by the truth of the statement. "That's enough," he said, the wolf reacting violently and his hand gripping Julia’s hard.

Julia saw the reaction, felt it intensely, even, and kept his hand firmly wrapped in both of hers. "Don't tax your brain cell over it, Isabelle. Just get the papers for us."

"Of course, darling, right away," Isabelle said, barely hiding her disdain, and opened a drawer to pick through the folders there. "We don't usually _have_ to pull these papers; it's why they're so memorable, only the _complete_ madpeople want them."

She forced a dry smile at Jeremy. "Well. She's finally got one thing right."

He opened his mouth to respond, but Isabelle continued to speak as though Julia hadn't said a word. "Because it's _illegal,_ " she said, pulling one form out with a flourish. "For good reason." She pulled another.

"That's why these are loopholes, sadly," she replied caustically.

"We're only trying to protect you. Who knows, you might be his next victim!" Isabelle yanked the next parchment out with emphasis.

Now she remembered why she didn’t just dislike Isabelle Davis, but _hated_ her. "The editorial is unappreciated."

"The laws are in place," and she pulled another form, "because they are just." She flicked through the files and pulled another. "Otherwise, they wouldn't be laws, now would they?"

"That should be all of them," Jeremy said, toneless for fear of biting her head off.

Isabelle looked back at them and tapped her lip. "No, one more." She glanced through the folders, peering into the drawer closely. "Ah! Here it is." She added it to the stack. "Here you are." She hesitated when Jeremy held out his hand to take the forms, and looked to Julia. "Are you _sure_ this is what you want?" she asked, in her best patronising imitation of sympathy.

She glanced up at Jeremy. Even looking so serious, her stomach jumped and her heart began to race at the sight of him. She’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted to be married to him. "Have a quill we can use?" she answered, afraid to hold a hand out for one because she was sure it would be shaking.

"Just give me the forms," Jeremy interrupted, gesturing for them. He had to see what that sixth form was.

Isabelle tutted, not taking her eyes off of Julia as she handed the werewolf the forms, pointedly avoiding any physical contact. "It breaks my heart to see good purebloods behave like this."

"Half," Julia snapped. She supposed it was nice to know she'd played the part convincingly enough while she was in school, but Isabelle certainly hadn’t been speaking of Jeremy. Did Jeremy know? Had she ever told him? She couldn’t remember, and she didn't care. "I'm half. What is it, Jeremy?"

Jeremy looked at the form as though he couldn't quite believe it. "They passed a procreation bill while I wasn't looking. It figures."

"Oh, you're _barking_ mad if you think that law hasn't been on the books for years," Isabelle said, with more of a smirk than ever at the pun. "Now that werewolf savagery is rearing its ugly head in the worst way, of course, we have more reason than ever to enforce it. We wouldn't want little Fenrir Greybacks running around."

"Quite fortunate it's not Fenrir Greyback I'd be procreating with," Julia snapped. Children were so far beyond her mental limits right now, but now that Jeremy had the form in his hand, she was pissed off. "Jesus Christ."

Jeremy did not see this going anywhere that was promising, and he needed to stay calm if only to make sure the wolf didn't get any more agitated. "A quill and ink if you would," he said, very polite.

"You can write? I thought you might have forgotten, what with -- well, I presume living with the savages," Isabelle said, sounding much like she just wanted to laugh as she went to fetch ink and a quill. "You're all the same, I don't doubt there's blood all over his hands, Julia, they're vicious carnivores, haven't you read _Fantastic Beasts?_ "

If she were a less stubborn person, Julia might've cried. Or screamed. Or both. Maybe later. Instead of that or indeed saying anything at all, she pressed her face into Jeremy's shoulder for a moment until the quill and ink were delivered to them.

Jeremy touched her back in comfort, kissing the top of her head and sending Isabelle a cool look. "Institutionalised racism, that's what I like to see," he said. "Let's get this over with."

Isabelle gestured to the ink and quill she'd set out on the nearby desk, and tucked her hands behind her back innocently.

"Lets get this over with," Julia echoed, picking up the quill and inking it. She hesitated for only a second, but recalled Jeremy's words to not even read it and just sign. And so she started, confidently, proud to sign her name next to his.

"Oh dear," Isabelle commented, crossing to lean on the other side of the desk. "Now you've agreed that you know the _danger_ of living with a werewolf..."

Jeremy signed the next one and pushed it over to Julia, sending her a smile. Soon they'd be finished with this. She smiled back, and she tried to keep herself from hearing Isabelle's words, although it was difficult. She didn't care. _She didn't care._ As if to make this point she dotted her i's with extra force.

"And now you've agreed that you know the danger of possible _infection,_ " Isabelle explained. "Because they've not bothered to study all the different ways he could turn you into one of them -- so few witches and wizards lack the sense to stay away, you see."

"Careful on that one, it wants middle name, not just initial," Julia told Jeremy, pointing out where she’d written _Patricia._

"Oh, thank you," Jeremy said, eyeing Isabelle before emphatically writing _Sean_ into the space his wife-to-be had indicated.

"You've now agreed to tell us everything you know in the event that your husband goes _feral,_ " Isabelle said, lowering her voice.

God, she couldn't breathe. It hurt. Keeping in mind the ultimate goal, she again signed her name.

Isabelle drummed her fingernails on the desk and watched them. "I suppose we can't expect anything less from the _daughter_ of a werewolf, can we, Curenton? She must have been raised a savage, just like you."

Of all the things that Julia would have expected to hear from Isabelle Davis, that wasn't even on the list. Memories sharper than anything assaulted her, and the part of her that remained six years old and aware that she'd forever lost her father -- not just her father, _dad,_ was suddenly twenty and intensely angry. She slammed the quill down on the desk, lifted her bag over her head and dropped it to the ground. Before Isabelle or even Jeremy could react, in a moment of uncharacteristic rage, Julia had jumped the desk, tackled Isabelle to the floor, and began landing every punch she could manage.

"What the f -- " Jeremy got out before Isabelle released a piercing shriek of "SECURITY!" He moved quickly to pull Julia off of the evil racist bitch, not because he necessarily wanted to. Yeah, he wasn't getting married today, not by a long shot. " _Julia!_ "

Julia had no words, just a frustrated cry. She desperately wanted to hit Isabelle again and moved to do so, but Jeremy had her firmly around the middle and she wasn't going anywhere. Her head began to clear again as Isabelle pulled herself off the floor and his hold didn't loosen. Holy shite. She'd just done that. "I'm sorry," she said, ostensibly not speaking to Isabelle but to him. "I ruined it... I'm _sorry_..."

He just held onto her, afraid to let her go for fear of the situation getting worse. "It's okay, it's fine, just -- "

There was a sudden shriek of "WHAT is going on here?" and Jeremy turned only to see _Dolores Umbridge_ standing there, pink and looking uncharacteristically fit to be tied. " _Well._ I suppose I don't need to ask what went on here, do I? Let go of the girl," she ordered.

"We're leaving," Jeremy said, fiercely protecting her -- even though there was no point, they were in trouble.

"That's right, you are. But the girl is coming with me, and you will leave the Ministry." Umbridge offered a sweetly dangerous smile. "Come along, miss, it's not far to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!"

Julia swallowed, leaning back against him. "Fine," she said, cleared her throat, and said it again. " _Fine._ "

Umbridge gave a short little laugh. "Good! No time to waste." She drew her wand and turned as someone passed by. "Hem, hem! Miss Davis needs medical attention, could you attend to that? Thank you, Kenneth." She looked to the girl, with a smile that was more of a challenge than anything else. "Come along, miss."

"I'll bail you out," Jeremy murmured, and kissed her cheek, only then releasing her.

She turned to look at him and kissed him again before she could help it. "I'm sorry," she apologised again, and began walking away with Madam Umbridge.

Jeremy honestly felt like he could spit, but the bloke Isabelle had earlier been slapping around was now gathering a woozy Isabelle into his arms and attempting to transport her. He considered helping, for a minute, but just left for home before he took a shot at her himself.

Going home without Julia wasn't exactly how Jeremy had pictured this day ending, and the lift felt horribly empty, but he ignored it and Disapparated the minute he got to the Atrium. He didn't even stop after arriving on the doorstep, flinging the door open and entering the Den in search of his parents. "DAD. MUM."

"Brighid!" Owen called back from where he was working in his office. He pushed his chair back and stood, meeting Jeremy in the hallway. He looked behind Jeremy, down the hallway. "Er. Jeremy, you seem to have forgotten someone," he said.

Jeremy opened his mouth to speak, rethought it, then finally just said it. "I need bail money."

"You need what?" Brighid asked loudly, hands on her hips.

Jeremy sighed. "She's right behind me, isn't she."

"It's her talent. You need bail money," Owen repeated, just to make sure that he'd heard his son correctly.

Jeremy stood aside so his mother could enter the room and leaned heavily against the wall. "Isabelle Davis is the sole worker at the Werewolf Registry."

" _Sole_ worker. That is somehow unsurprising," he answered derisively.

"Where have I heard that name before?" Brighid wondered. "Davis?"

"Her Death Eater father was killed by Fenrir when they helped him escape from the Ministry, but on top of that she's made it her life goal to make Julia as miserable as possible, and ... well, Julia punched her. So now she's going to be locked up and I need bail money," Jeremy concluded.

"Julia? _Our_ Julia?" Owen raised his eyebrows.

"She actually tackled her," Jeremy amended. "Bit of a rugby thing, I think -- "

"Oh lord," Brighid sighed. "That makes her one of you now, doesn't it?"

Jeremy was more amused than affronted, but still. " _I've_ never gone to jail."

"Give it time, give it time," Owen sighed. Julia, who hardly said boo, had tackled a Ministry worker and was now going to be spending time in lockup. "Well, if she's one of us, we'll be getting her out, then. Not what I was hoping to give for a wedding present, but..."

"We're not married yet. We got through four of six forms and then she said something about Julia's dad." He paused. "Dad, did you know there's an anti-werewolf procreation law on the books?"

"Of all the trashy – in _incredibly_ poor taste -- " He stopped himself, focusing on Jeremy's question. "I've never seen it, but I'd heard there was such a thing. It's old -- centuries, at least," he answered, setting his jaw.

"Well, it's back. To, how did she put it, make sure we don't have little Fenrir Greybacks running around." He gave his father a withering look.

"She's like to have to spend the night in there," Brighid spoke up before they'd forget about the girl entirely.

Owen exhaled heavily, taken back to the subject at hand. "Right," he said, and looked back to Jeremy. "They are liable to keep her."

"But I have to check. Right?" Jeremy leaned his head back against the wall. " _Fuck._ ... Sorry, Mum."

"Of course," Owen agreed, and he pulled out his wand and took the hex off the bottom drawer of his desk where a certain amount of emergency cash was kept. "It depends on what MLE is doing, and how on the ball they feel about processing a baited young woman instead of, you know, doing things that could actually help society... How much was it when you had to bail me out, B? I've quite forgotten."

Brighid crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't remember the exact number, Owen, I had other things on my mind," she said, with a pointed look. "A _riot,_ really -- "

"Mum, please," Jeremy interrupted with a sigh. "We know, Dad started a riot and he's an idiot, any idea how much? Please?"

She gave her son a warning look, but went on explaining to Owen, "I don't know if it'll be the same amount but it was about 100 for yours, Owen."

"Thank you, dear," Owen said mildly. He lifted the sack of galleons out of the drawer and placed it on the desk, closing the drawer. "I suspect it won't be quite that much. If more is needed, then we'll get it."

Jeremy came forward to take the money, tucking it into his pocket and stepping back in a bit of a daze. "We're still getting married as soon as I get her out of there," he added, looking between his parents. "I'll be back. With Julia. Even if I have to bribe." He tried a grin.

"Of course, you can't expect a little setback like being taken into custody to stop a Curenton from something like getting married," his father replied firmly, and smiled back slightly.

Jeremy looked at his mother. "See, it's a good thing we didn't have a wedding, because right now she'd be in there ruining a nice white dress."

Brighid had to smile at that, but shooed him out. "Go and bail her out," she insisted. "Go get your wife."

"Oh!" Owen said, reaching into his breast pocket, signaling for one more minute. "I know that this is hardly at the top of the list as far as things we're considering right now, but these were my parents'." He pulled out a pair of rings, a man's and a woman's. "For the two of you, if you'd like."

Jeremy hadn't thought a moment about rings. Then again, he recently had more disturbing things on his mind than wedding details. He went to look at them, then he realised. "You're sure?" he asked. They were his _grandparents'_ rings, by god.

"I'm positive, take them," he said, placing them in Jeremy's hand. "There might be no white dress but, well. A little tradition won't kill you, I promise."

"Just take care when you go back," Brighid said, hesitant to interrupt as her son stared at the rings.

Jeremy closed his hand and put the rings in his pocket as well, "I'm always careful," he said. "Thanks, Dad. It's -- thanks."

Owen smiled, placing his hands on Jeremy's shoulders for a moment. "Go get married."

Jeremy didn't have to be told twice, and bolted out of the room and the Den, eager to get her the hell out of a Ministry cell and back with him as soon as possible.

Brighid glanced out of the door and watched her son practically sprint out of the door, only turning back to her husband with a smile once he was out of sight. "I can't believe she was imprisoned before he was, to be honest," she said.

"Me neither," he admitted, approaching her slowly. "I didn't think Julia knew how to hurt a fly, let alone tackle and punch a person." He shook his head. "Well. It certainly seems like she's marrying into the right family, anyway."

"I didn't doubt that for a second," she chided him, and took his hand in hers. "Well, she's talking and gravely offending Ministry officials ... she's a Curenton now, all right."

He smiled at her. "It takes a certain sort," he joked affectionately.

She tried to keep a somewhat serious expression, but failed and smiled, kissing him fondly. "He's nearly finished," she said, leaning against him. "Then this'll all be over."

He sighed, kissing her cheek and rubbing her back. "I really hope so," he said. "But first they're going to come home, tonight."

"Right." She moved away, excusing herself with, "I have to work on the cake. A little tradition won't kill them, after all."

"I somehow doubt anyone in their right minds is going to turn down a little cake regardless of whether they were just married or not," Owen said. "Of course, I suppose it's debatable who is actually in their right mind around here..."

"Even the mad appreciate my food, though," Brighid reminded him, then grinned. "If you join me, you get frosting."

"Temptress," he accused, and hexed the appropriate drawer again before seizing her around the waist.

She laughed and kissed him again, informing him as she pulled away, "And no more silliness like last time."

"That was not silliness, I happen to take cake frosting extremely seriously," he said, keeping hold and letting her pull him after her.

"Melinda had just better not walk in on your _extremely serious_ frosting misconduct," Brighid chided, and gave him a kiss to shut him up before hurrying to get the wedding cake done in time for her criminal daughter-in-law and son to arrive home.

~*~

Time dragged on at Hati's pack house. Each day seemed longer as minutes wore on and they waited for word from Curenton, or worse. It was as though they half-expected Fenrir and his pack to show up on their doorstep without any kind of warning, so they were always ready. It was an exhausting state of paranoia, but necessary for their preservation. It had never failed them yet, at least.

Tom was not the sort of man to worry until worry came to him. His wife was always busy and thinking forward down every possible path, enough for the both of them. She was in such a heightened state now, although understandably so. She'd retreated to an upper room of the house, as was usual for the afternoon, and he was in the front sitting room in an armchair near a window, reading the most recent edition of the Prophet. Rather, he was ignoring what looked to be a rather obnoxious editorial, _What Will The Ministry Do About The Werewolf Problem?_ Tom personally thought that if ingenuity were frosting, the Ministry wouldn't have enough to cover a teacake, but it was obviously not at the top of their list at the moment -- not that that was a terrible thing.

He'd settled into the serenity of the late July afternoon, the silence for once in the house being calming rather than eerie, when the window beside him shattered with a crash and he felt a hex whiz over him, ruffling his greying hair. Once he'd recovered he looked out the window and perhaps just as he should have expected, saw Adam, David, Edward, and Jane staring back at him with identical looks of sheepish surprise.

David was the first to recover from the surprise, lowered his wand, and gave his father a big wave and cheerful smile. "Hi, Dad!"

"How're things inside?" Adam asked in an identical tone with a big grin.

"Breezy," Tom answered wryly, crossing his arms.

"To be fair, there was good reason for that." Edward stuck his hands in his pockets, grinning.

"Dueling! We're practising in case the Death Eaters show up," David said, gesturing emphatically with his wand.

"Don't think if, think when," Edward said, sounding just as severe as Hati often did. "That's what Hati says and that's what we're going by."

Tom glanced at the mark on the wall behind him. "Ah yes," he said. "Well, your aim could be better," he called back to them. "You could start with that."

Adam looked at Jane, the guilty party. "Well. It usually is," he said.

Jane's cheeks blushed crimson. "Sorry," she called.

David sidled away from Jane before he said, "Apparently her aim is only perfect when she's got a Curenton in her sights."

"At least I can take a Stinging Hex," she shot back, brandishing her wand again.

Adam grinned. "Oh come on, Janie, there's absolutely nothing undignified about rolling around in the grass going, ' _Ow,_ you wee bitch, that _hurt_ \-- '"

"She cheated!" David pointed out. "I hadn't quite got my wand out yet but there she was, hexes a-flyin' -- "

They were back in their own world, dueling, defending, and breakneck speed at both. Tom shook his head and calmly Reparo'd the window before turning to see about removing the hex mark from the wall.

"You're not going to get any different treatment from Death Eaters in a duel," Jane returned, easily blocking David's own Stinging Hex. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and before there could be any further reaction she turned in the direction. " _Expelliarmus._ " 

" _PROTEGO!_ " Julia was not used to casting a Shield Charm, and definitely not with that sort of lightning reflex and half-panic. Jane's Disarming charm bounced off the shield harmlessly as the force of it pushed Julia back off her feet and she landed on the ground. Jeremy had been right, keeping prepared had proved better than not. "It's just me," she called back experimentally, hands up.

"It's Julia," Edward said to the other three at the sound of her voice. "Don't kill her, Hati's orders," he added to Jane with a smirk.

"I wasn't going to kill her," Jane returned.

"THAT WAS AWESOME," Adam declared with a laugh as Julia picked herself off the grass and got steady on her feet again. "No vivisection here, Edward, I think we're safe from mam on this one."

"Well. At least you're quick," Julia muttered, red-cheeked and brushing herself off.

"Is this business or pleasure, do you have a message?" David asked, curiously watching the girl approach.

"Business," she answered immediately, showing him the parchment before replacing it in her pocket. "So, ah, if I may..."

Edward hopped onto the porch and opened the door for her. "She'll want to see you. I'll get her," he added.

"Thank you," she said, passing the others (warily, despite the fact that a shot had already been taken at her for this visit) as she entered the house.

He passed by her and ascended the steep stairs without hesitation, giving the slightest indication he could over his tie to Hati that he was on his way.

David entered the house before his brother and Jane, and considered Julia before spotting something in particular. "Is that a _ring?_ "

Julia's attention broke from watching Edward climb the stairs as she had been, to the three who now considered her intently. "Oh." She looked down at the ring she wore on her left hand, the ring that had formerly been Jeremy's grandmother's wedding ring, now hers. "I -- yeah, it is."

"Jesus. Curenton wastes no time," Adam said, peering at it. 

"I'm amazed that he has time to get married, let alone find a ring," Jane answered.

"Well, honestly he didn't, it was his grandmother's," Julia said. "And... well, we made time."

"Somehow I'm not surprised," David said wryly. "Trying to take down the unified pack isn't challenge enough, he's got to get married."

Julia gave a small laugh. "Well. They've each got their own little challenges."

"Oh, this is fantastic. Ben needs to hear this," Adam added, and Jane nodded in agreement.

"Er, well, I didn't really mean to interrupt things around here -- " Julia started.

"I'll get him," David volunteered, and went to go track Ben down.

"Oh, trust me, it's not just you. You just happen to be something new to focus on, we're just basically sitting on our hands," Jane told Julia.

"Yeah, we get bored of teasing Janie here," Adam agreed, and jumped when Jane poked him in the ribs. "I mean, there's only so many times we can make the jokes about Curenton -- although I have to say you lot take it very well -- "

"I guess it just goes with the name," Julia replied dryly. 

"What, the target for your front?" Adam joked.

"The one for my back as well." 

Ben came in from the back of the house with David close behind him. "All right," he said in his serious business tone once he spotted Julia, "did David tell me right or is he pulling my leg?"

"Er." Julia was beginning to be overwhelmed, she wasn't used to this much attention from anybody. Not even from her new in-laws. "Depends on what he told you?"

"May I present to you, Mrs Jeremy Curenton," David announced, looking past Ben.

"Last chance to deny the whole thing," Adam grinned at her.

"Oh, no, that part's true," Julia said, and then showed the ring again without another word.

Ben smirked slightly and then shook his head. "I swear, I don't know how he does it," he said. 

"A lot of balls and no sleep," she muttered, putting her hand back down.

David grinned. "That's how we do things here, too!"

"Yeah, but I don't remember any of us getting married recently," Ben said.

"Well. Of course not, we're busy people," Adam scoffed.

"Too busy to go to the Ministry, at any rate," David said, but straightened when he heard the distinct sound of someone coming down the stairs.

There was a shift of energy and decorum in the room, and Julia prepared herself mentally for business as she turned to face the stairs again. She lowered her head in a respectful greeting, giving Hati or anyone else the chance to speak to her first.

"You have a message." Hati appraised the girl as she approached. "Yes?"

"Yes," she answered quickly, and pulled the parchment out of her pocket. "With his greetings, etcetera," she added, holding it out to the pack leader.

Hati pulled Edward closer with their tie and had him read the note with her. After a pause, she looked up. "His plans are going well, he says, the unnameds are making a smooth transition from the unified pack into the Den and into the Muggle world."

"Into the Muggle world," Jane said sceptically. 

"It's -- it really is working quite well," Julia said. "It's... in simple jobs, but enough that they can be independent." She glanced back at Hati and fell silent, embarrassed. Interrupting and talking too much in general was not usually a problem she had.

Edward's hand flew over his mouth as he read the parchment, but he lowered his hand quickly as Hati struck him with the power of the tie. "He projects that it'll be a few more months before they'll consider having the unified pack declare war, and -- " he stopped, staring at the parchment.

The silence was tense for a moment, and Ben cleared his throat. "And what, Edward?" he prodded calmly.

Edward hesitated, but Hati nudged him to go on. "And two weeks ago, Fenrir executed Laurel," he said, a bit shaky.

Jane clapped a hand over her mouth, and Adam's eyebrows jumped into his hairline. Julia swallowed but said nothing. The silence was shocked. Ben shook his head. "I can't believe it."

"He -- he said he would," Jane recovered.

"He wouldn't lie?" Hati said shortly to Ben.

He shook his head. "Not about something like that," he said. "Certainly not to you, and not with -- his wife delivering the message for him."

Hati looked back at the parchment and reread the words a few times; the blood rushed from her face and she said, "Well. He's proven himself and I'll no longer doubt him. That's _all,_ everyone go back to what you were doing, girl, you're free to go when you like."

"Julia," Edward said softly, urgently to Hati. "Her name is Julia, you might do best to -- " 

"Julia," Hati said tersely, cutting Edward off as she looked at Julia. "Your -- ah -- _husband_ is a cunning man. You should be proud."

Her cheeks warmed. She might get used to the word one day, but it wasn't going to be today. "I am, thank you."

Hati gave her a stiff nod and put her hand on Edward's shoulder, leading him to the front room to find her husband. "Have to keep an eye on Curenton," she murmured to him.

"Never let him stay overnight," Edward muttered in response, amused to draw a smile from her.

"Aw, she likes you," Adam winked at Julia.

"Stop teasing her," Jane said. "She tied the knot with Curenton, I think that qualifies her as 'passed' for whatever messed up initiation ritual you boys come up with."

"So he really got Laurel killed," David repeated, still a bit surprised. "It's a good thing he's on our side."

"A man like him with all the knowledge he has is a dangerous man," Ben acknowledged, "and he actually bloody well did it." There was a part of him that still couldn't believe it. He shook his head again and looked at Julia. "Will you be staying?"

"No, I... should really be going," Julia answered. "It's been a busy couple of days and... well, I'll have to go back to work and things'll be back to -- where they were." Not normal. Things wouldn't be normal until she could have Jeremy with her all the time. 

"Whenever you're ready, Jane will give you thirty seconds to reach the perimeter," Adam deadpanned.

"That joke is never going to get old," David said, giving a contented sigh.

"I'll give you two five seconds to get out of the house," Jane said, drawing her wand, and before she finished 'one-one thousand,' Adam took his brother by the wrist and dashed back out through the front door. 

Ben looked as Jane sprinted after them and the door banged shut. "Just duck when you're leaving if you need to. They won't even notice you've gone if the duel gets heated as it usually does."

"All right," she said, a little amused, but grew serious again. "He was -- " She searched for the words that she wanted to use, and he waited patiently for her. "He said he was going to bring more people, more often. I'll... I guess I'll come when he sends me," she finished lamely.

He searched her face for a few more telltale signs to what she might have been thinking, but found nothing that was not already apparent. "We look forward to more visits from you, Mrs Curenton."

Julia gave a small laugh. "I... goodbye, Ben. I hope I have more good news next time."

"As do we." Especially since good news was going to come increasingly hard to come by. "Goodbye."

She nodded and left by the front door and stopped just short of being run over by Adam, who was chased by Jane and David ran to catch up. She left the house behind her, relaxed since her first visit had been a success (or at least not a dismal failure). She Disapparated once she could, leaving them behind.

Hati watched the girl leave their territory as she leaned against her husband on the couch, breaking the silence only when she went out of sight. "Tom," she said, "I'm beginning to wonder if my allies are more dangerous than my enemies."

"Well," he sighed, considering it and glancing at the spot on the wall from earlier that had not quite managed to come off. "In that case, I suppose you should thank god they are your allies."

"If they are in fact my allies, and remain so," she returned, idly playing with the hair at the back of his neck.

He kissed the top of her head. "Ben trusts him implicitly; he's a good judge of character, Ben," he started. "And really, what other choice is there?"

"I was afraid you'd say that," Hati said wryly, and kissed his cheek. "If he can kill her," she added, reflecting, "he could kill me. That's all."

"Then the last thing he'd see is the business end of my wand," he promised, and thought it through. "Doubt you could keep Adam and David away from him, either…" It was also doubtful that if that were to happen, there would be enough of Curenton left for his pretty young wife to bury. Fortunately, it didn’t seem as though things would go that way.

She nodded, and sat up. "I have to talk to Ben about this. I'll see you later."

"See you," he echoed, squeezing her hand.

Hati kissed him quickly and sent him a fleeting smile, which quickly vanished into her usual formidable look as she went to go look for her counterpart pack leader. There was far too much to discuss, grim things and good things, and even more plans to make with the now steadily approaching war.

~*~

Anyone who knew Newt Scamander knew that he did things his own way, without apology. But it wasn't as though he'd been trained for this sort of thing -- he wasn't a politician of any kind, he was a magizoologist who had followed his philosophy of "If You Want Something Done Right..." right into the Magical Creatures office of the Ministry, eventually rising to the top as their Head. Even with all that, there were certain things that were not his strongest points. Speaking to the press, for instance.

Normally, he avoided it. To him, the press was like a swarm of gnats. Very large gnats that talked and sniped and had low standards, but gnats nonetheless. He'd hired a very smart press secretary who managed to take no crap but give none, and usually he let her handle them. But he somehow managed to wind up with Mary Brookstanton on his schedule for the day, anyway. Nettie had taken his cricket bat for safekeeping and he was doing busy work while he waited.

Mary Brookstanton laughed as she left the office of Dolores Umbridge, giving her assistant Kenneth a playful nudge before she checked her watch. She would be a few minutes early to her appointment with Newt Scamander, but the extra time would likely be needed to get him off of the defensive.

Upon being allowed into his office, she tucked her hands behind her back and smiled. "Mr Scamander, good afternoon, it's a pleasure as always."

"Miss Brookstanton, good afternoon," he replied, signing a parchment quickly before looking up, warily. "Please, sit."

She took a seat across from him and within an instant had her quill, parchment, and polite smile ready to go. "I hope that this isn't an inconvenience to you, sir, but the wizarding public is very curious to hear from you, Mr Scamander, and I'm grateful that you allowed me this opportunity."

"I'm sure they are," he deadpanned, sitting back in his chair. The sooner she asked her questions and got flippant, insistent answers from him, the sooner she could get out of there and tell everyone at the newspaper what they already knew about him.

She tapped her quill on the page, looked thoughtful, then asked, "More than any conflict the wizarding world has seen before -- besides the clashes with goblins, of course -- this war against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters has seen activity and aid from magical creatures. Why do you think that is?"

"Well," he said, looking for an answer that wasn't going to be considered boorish. "While I'm not privy to the inner workings of You-Know-Who's machinations, I would guess that it's going by the adage of 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'"

"You think the magical creatures view the people of the wizarding world as their enemies?"

"I think that our history of rocky relations and no real inclination as a whole to change or remedy that has left them feeling some animosity, yes," he said calmly.

"And what have you done or plan to do to bridge that gap?" she asked promptly.

"The Department is finding our hands tied because... certain personnel in other certain Departments are making our jobs impossible to do by doing them for us," he said.

"Oh? What would you be doing, if that wasn't posing a problem for you?"

_It doesn't much matter, everyone would be too busy trying to replace Crouch, because he'd be dead or removed._ "It's hard to say," he admitted. "The fact is that our offices are finding ourselves understaffed and underfunded. If there weren't a war going on, I'm sure that would be different. Ideally, we would like to make it so siding with Death Eaters wouldn’t be the more attractive option for them."

"You're... underfunded," Mary repeated from her notes. "One would think you would receive any funding you asked for, Mr Scamander, if I may be so frank."

"One would think," he repeated wryly.

"Couldn't you have done something about this before the war? Isn't it the concern of your Department to, well... control and regulate the magical creatures, to make sure that the wizarding public is safe from any magical creature who strays, and to make those magical creatures content with the wizarding world? One _would_ think a decorated, educated man like yourself would have seen a problem like this coming."

"We were controlling and regulating," he said flatly.

She finished what she was writing and had an immediate answer. "Not very effectively, if they can be so easily led to turn against the wizarding world, I must say. What do you have to say to the people of wizarding Britain, who cower in fear at every full moon in case Fenrir Greyback turns his rage on them next?"

_Lock your doors and hope that you didn't do anything to piss off a Death Eater this month._ "At the request of and in conjunction with Magical Law Enforcement, we've sent out pamphlets to the public detailing how to protect themselves and what to do in case of a werewolf attack," Newt answered blandly. "And I would just add that living in fear has never helped anyone -- doing something to overcome the fear or prevent the dreaded outcome is the best way to handle it."

She raised her eyebrows at him, expression purposefully blank. "Isn't that your responsibility, Mr Scamander?"

He needed his cricket bat. Damn Nettie for taking it. "If I could be everywhere at all times, I suppose that it would be," he replied. "Good day, Miss Brookstanton."

Mary stood, tucking all but one sheet of parchment back into her bag. "Thank you for the interview, sir, I appreciate the time."

_I appreciate the yellow journalism._ "I trust you can find your way out from here," he told her.

"I know my way around," she said wryly, and left.

Newt closed the door to his office with a curt flick of his wand and put up his feet on the edge of his desk for a moment, reflecting that it could have gone a whole lot worse.

~*~

_August 1981_  
The kitchen in the Den was too small, Brighid knew, but that didn't matter. By sheer force of will, she could teach all of these werewolves how to cook. This was the Plan, as she and Melinda had taken to calling it, and it was working, even if the kitchen was too small and one of the girls had been burned by a saucepan. "We're going to make three basic meals," she began, her tone as bright and friendly as her smile. "The three most basic meals that any restaurant in the United King -- "

There was a sudden crash, and Brighid had the presence of mind to duck as a rock with a note tied to it flew through the window. It landed next to one of the unnameds, who jumped, and Melinda -- who sat nearby -- said serenely, "Please pick that up, Christopher, and don't read the note."

"OWEN!" Brighid shouted at the top of her lungs, stepping over one of the werewolves to find her husband.

Owen had heard something that could be loosely defined as a commotion from his office, and was already on his way to investigate. "Brighid?" he answered back questioningly.

Brighid nearly ran into him attempting to turn a corner. "Owen," she said, a bit breathless, then reminded herself of the situation. She immediately frowned. "We have another rock to add to the collection."

His look immediately changed to match hers as he grimaced. "Honestly? That's the third one this month already, just like clockwork."

She gestured impatiently. "Right through the kitchen window this time! I'm trying to do some good, I'm standing there like Professor Binns droning on and thank heavens I knew it was coming, it would've hit me right in the back of my head. Three just this month and it won't be the last, Owen. Gutless thugs, all of them!"

Christopher held it up. "I didn't read it," he said immediately, as though he was about to be accused of such a heinous crime.

"They don't get to read the rocks," Melinda said, with an affirming nod, and took the rock from Christopher. "Here you are, Owen. The spectacle's over," she added. "Go on, Brighid, I have it handled."

Brighid's eyebrows reached for her hairline. "Are you sure?" she asked. "It's not as easy as it looks -- "

"I've seen you do it a thousand times, no worries," Melinda said, flashing a smile. "Go on, talk to Owen, we'll still be here -- don't touch anything yet!" she added firmly to one of the unnameds, who immediately withdrew her hand from reaching for the pot, and turned back to the Curentons with a smile.

"Just as well, only one of us needs to be righteously angry at a time. Thank you, Christopher," Owen sighed, taking the rock. "Come on, B, you heard the woman. She's got things handled."

Brighid appraised Melinda, who was already continuing the lecture expertly, and only then chose to walk away. "I'm being usurped," she said to Owen.

"Only in the kitchen, darling," he said, already in the hallway and looking at the note. "Curentons," he read in a half-murmured deadpan. "Take your Dark Creatures and get out, you bleeding heart -- oh dear, there's a word that's not fit for mixed company..."

"Is it anything like what you've called Ministry officials?' she asked, amused, as she followed him.

"I have to admit, I've not used this one. I might have to steal it, though," he said, reading it again. "Terrible sentence structure, though."

"It's hate speech, not editorial," Brighid reminded him, and looked up at the sound of a slamming door. "Oh no, what now -- "

Jeremy stormed into the room, an open copy of _The Daily Prophet_ held above his head like it was an explosive. "What the _hell_ is this? Am I the only person who read this, or are people just _choosing_ not to tell me what's going on? I'm fighting a war out there and people don't even have the decency to tell me that the Ministry is practically _declaring war on us?_ And what the _fuck_ is Wolfsbane?"

He stopped, finally took a breath, and said, "Hi, Mum, Dad."

Owen stared at Jeremy for a moment, rock in his hand, openly bewildered. "I'm sorry, you lost me in your tirade. Good evening, Jeremy."

Jeremy exhaled, looked at the rock, then turned back to the unnameds who still stood at the door. "Come on, go find somewhere to sit or something, we'll have someone in to talk to you soon enough," he said as patiently as he could manage, and waited for them to leave before he spoke again.

"We'll talk about Wolfsbane some other time," Brighid said before he could start another tirade. "What are you talking about, Ministrywise? I haven't read today's _Prophet_ yet."

Jeremy held out the copy he'd found abandoned in the street, folded to the right article. "Here, where _Bartemius Crouch_ goes on one of his usual impressive rampages, except instead of Death Eaters -- well, he might as well have replaced every reference to You-Know-Who to _Fenrir Greyback_ and every reference to Death Eaters to _werewolves._ That's right -- we're now a Law Enforcement _priority,_ " he completed, and threw the paper onto the ground. "I need a fucking drink."

Owen gave his son a severe look, and continued into the front room. "You should know we don't keep alcohol in the house, and please watch your mouth." He stopped in front of the fireplace mantle and contemplated the rock in his hand before detaching the note and adding it to their collection of rocks previously thrown through their windows or otherwise at them. "Much good may it do them. They don't have any resources, they don't have any personnel, and they certainly don't have any sort of reliable tracking system."

"It _doesn't matter,_ they're sure as hell going to try, and the last thing I need right now is for Fenrir to be _laying low._ It's not that I want him out there biting people the Death Eaters don't like, but I can't do what I'm supposed to be doing if he's got the MLE leash around his neck. It's not going to end if they arrest Fenrir," Jeremy insisted. "If it was as simple as that we could've just killed _him_ and that'd be it. This is Barty Crouch, he's speaking out against werewolves, he'll find _something._ " He paced, infuriated, too much so to think straight, then stopped on his way back and looked at the rocks. "They're attacking you," he realised.

"They always have been, Jeremy, even in Pembrokeshire, you know that," Brighid said, keeping her tone low and reasonable. "And we established ourselves in a city, we had to expect it -- "

"But since the attacks, there are more, am I right?" Jeremy asked, and snatched a rock from the mantle, tossing it into the air and catching it to feel its weight. "I would get the victims out if I thought anyone would take them."

_And you're preaching to the choir._ "May," Owen said, putting his finger on one of the rocks. "A note in June. Two more in July," he added, pointing them out in turn, "and three this month."

Jeremy replaced the rock and stared at the collection for a long moment, and brushed his mother's hand off when she tried to touch him. "Terribly ironic," he said. "They turn on all of us when we need them most. _Typical,_ I think. Isn't someone going to tell me what the Ministry's doing with wolfsbane? I can't possibly be more disappointed than I am now."

"You say that now," Owen replied dryly, wondering where to start with the subject of the wolfsbane potion to his son. His understandably irate son. "The wolfsbane potion... was developed by St. Mungo's with Ministry funding with the idea that they could use a combination of wolfsbane and neutralising ingredients and variables to keep werewolves supposedly in their 'right minds' during full moon transformations. It poisons the wolf, essentially."

Jeremy looked at his father in nothing less than shock, and felt the anger of the out-of-control wolf hit him full-force like one of Wesley's kicks to the ribs. "I need to sit down," he said, choosing to be halfway dignified about this as he took a seat and tried to breathe. "Let me get this straight, they're marketing Wolfsbane as a substance to _help_ werewolves be nonviolent during the full moon. Well, let's practise this on Death Eaters, feed them some belladonna drops, see how violent they're feeling." He winced and sat forward, head in his hands. " _Christ._ "

"Yes, precisely," he said, neatly leaving out the part about the man who had died, and who the hospital administration, in their infinite wisdom, had seen fit to name head of the project. He was temporarily spared more questions as he heard the front door open and close.

Julia, as she ever did, first looked into Owen's office and then the front room. She took a breath and said, "Hi. ... What's going on?"

Owen gave her a small smile in greeting. "Jeremy's just heard about the wonder that is the wolfsbane potion, and we got a new rock through the kitchen window."

"Another one?" She frowned, dropping her bag near the chair where Jeremy was seated, where she now routinely left it.

"Barty Crouch promised to deliver up some werewolves, so no doubt he will," Jeremy said, lifting his head. "I know the Werewolf Registry is all but defunct, but they might just come looking for us, I'm not underestimating the importance of this. It's going to stop Fenrir right in his tracks, and that's the last thing I need." With that out of his system, he looked up at his wife. "Hi."

"Hi," she replied, tenderly pushing some hair back off his face.

He looked at her as though seriously considering talking to her or just snogging her senseless, but he went on, "And if I were Newt Scamander, this is the time I'd take to put more funding into the Werewolf Registry before _Madam Umbridge_ and her worshippers could get in my way. I hope I'm wrong, but this -- _it matters,_ Dad." He looked at Julia's left hand and ended up with a bit of a grin.

Even though Jeremy was clearly not checked in anymore but somewhere else with his wife, Owen answered. "I know, Jeremy," he said. "I'm not counting on it happening, but I do know. As for what Crouch promises and what Crouch can actually deliver and put resources into, we'll see. We'll be keeping him honest."

"Always better to be prepared for the worst, is what I say," Jeremy said, calming the wolf with a slow breath and only then taking Julia's hand. "I'll. Yeah. I'll be back. Tell Melinda this'll be a stubborn lot," he added, standing very carefully, a bit shaky.

"Oh, I'm sure she's more than ready for them," Owen said. "But I shall." Brighid took his hand and gently pulled him from the room, not leaving without casting a worried look in her son's direction.

As Owen and Brighid left, Julia gave him a similar look. "Are you okay?" she asked, squeezing the one hand she had in hers.

"I'm -- I'm just starting to wonder if this is a world worth trying to save, that's all," he said. "Barty Crouch, Madam _Umbridge,_ Isabelle Davis, they're busy tearing us down because of Fenrir while I'm doing my best to make sure we even survive Fenrir, what's the point, I could be here with you for all it's really going to mean."

"Come on, sit down," she said, taking him to the couch and literally pulling him down next to her. "It's going to mean something."

He let himself be pulled down. "We'll struggle back to the status quo," he said. "Not an inspiring battle cry, that." His mouth opened, closed, and he added, " _Wolfsbane,_ do you believe it? I wonder how many werewolves _died_ to make that potion work, I wonder how many self-loathing werewolves _do_ die from overdosing -- it's just typical Ministry bollocks, I shouldn't be surprised."

"Just the one, from what I understand," she said, running a finger over the back of his hand. "I don't know much about it, just what your dad's said." She contemplated it for a moment. "Obviously, they tried to shut it up, but it still got out. Your dad was... angry, to put it mildly."

"I don't doubt it." Jeremy could've kept talking about politics, but -- no, he couldn't, not when they were this close. "It won't be long now, I'll be back soon," he said, before kissing her.

"I know," she said, and she could be patient. She could. "Don't worry about it."

He wanted to tell her about the sickening façade he’d taken on, the lies, the murder. He didn't, and just took her hand. "I love you. I really do." The corners of his mouth tugged into a slight smile. "Julia Curenton."

She just smiled, and curled up against him. She could feel everything that still bothered him, it was in his muscles and how she fit against him. She ignored it. "Love you," she answered.

He kissed her forehead, brushed her hair away from it, and went on. "I'm sorry, I just like the way it sounds." He considered that, and added, "Your family may not, but I do."

"They'll get used to it." She hadn't even told them about the actual marriage yet. There had been so little time between when she finally announced the engagement to them and when they'd gotten married, that she hadn't been able to stand the thought of handling another reaction in that amount of time. It had, predictably, not gone very well.

"I don't get any less of a werewolf each year," Jeremy reminded her, "and I definitely won't get any quieter. If they hate me now it's not going to get any better."

"And I don't get any less sure of what I want," she said, not moving a bit. "They don't hate you. If anything, they hate me."

He smiled a little. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Fine. They can hate both of us."

"They probably wouldn't hate you if you weren't with me," he reminded her. "If you were running around with a Quidditch player..."

She didn't answer for a long time, unsure of why she was even participating in this conversation. "If I were running around with a Quidditch player, I'd probably also be doing something incredibly stupid and self-destructive," she said, absently twisting her ring, as had become her habit.

"At least they wouldn't be throwing rocks at you," he concluded, kissing the top of her head. "It doesn't matter. Soon I'll be able to yell at them myself."

_Frobishers don't yell. We are quietly stubborn until our sisters flip out, our mothers cry, and the men get silently contemplative._ "Yeah. You will, I'm sure," she answered.

"I don't yell that much," he added. "Only when it matters."

"You don't," she conceded.

He looked at her for a moment, then said, "I'm going upstairs. You can come with me, if you like."

She sat up and straightened herself out, before leaning back over to him and lightly kissing his cheek, jaw, throat... "Can't think of anyplace else I want to be."


	22. Under Pressure

_Everyone is under pressure in this war, no one more so than Magical Law Enforcement. The question is really if -- or when -- they will finally fold._ Trenton Williamson, "Circling the Wagons," _The Daily Prophet_ , 12 August 1981 

_August 1981_  
Skylar could hardly believe, even months later, that they'd managed to take down Laurel. Jeremy had been right: having her removed was the keystone to proceeding with the plan with no interference. Now they moved relatively unhindered, and with Briony's Father now in on the plan, it seemed all the easier. 

But now her worry was what to do with the children. Gemma and Rory, specifically. Neither of them had been ready to see Fenrir slit Laurel's throat without a second thought, and she had failed to protect them in that. She would not do so again. She'd contemplated sending them with Jeremy on one of his trips back to the Den, but she remained doubtful on whether they would go, or even should. All she had decided was that if she had it to do again, she would have sent them the first chance she had.

One more meeting came and Skylar nonchalantly climbed the stairs and went to Remus's room, surprised to find Briony already there. "Hi," she said, looking back at the younger girl. "Early?"

"Hiding," she answered. She'd been in there for what felt like hours but was probably closer to one. Admittedly, it was probably the second or third place most people would look for her these days, but it was nice to be relatively away from the brush of other wolves and their thoughts. Skylar simply nodded her understanding and took a seat.

Jeremy Apparated into the room, tucking his wand back into his belt as he took a seat. "You're both here early," he said, and went on to tease, "The rumours aren't true, are they, Briony?"

She gave him a bored look from where she was laid out on the floor. "Which rumours would you be talking about, Jeremy?"

"You know, there are girls who were falling over themselves over Remus back at school?" Jeremy went on. "Right into walls. He was a prefect and everything."

She chortled. "I'm not sure he'd know what to do with himself if I stripped down and crawled into bed with him. Prefect's right, though. Told me himself."

"Be nice," Skylar chided lightly, stretching her legs out. 

"I _am_ being nice," Briony replied, turning her head to look at Skylar.

"I was a prefect too," Jeremy felt it necessary to add. "For three months. Be nice, Briony, if it weren't for me we'd all be out there in shallow graves instead of Laurel."

Conor opened the door to hear the Curenton speaking and grimaced, taking a seat by Briony. "That's the positive discussion I like to hear," he said.

"I am perfectly nice," Briony continued to protest. She acclimated and calmed with Conor there, and she touched wolves easily.

"You are far too easy to rile," Skylar replied to her, smiling to soften the words.

"She's not used to people teasing her." Conor smiled and touched Briony's arm, keeping it light while he could. "Being the privileged first does that."

"Hell, that's the only way we know how to show affection," Skylar answered, and then grinned at Jeremy. "Tell me I'm wrong, I dare you."

"No, that's about how it works," Jeremy agreed. "And you should see Ben and his new mates, the trend continues. Where's Remus?" he added to Conor.

Conor shrugged, flippant. "Out on some important errand, no doubt. There's no end to what Fenrir will trust him with."

"Yes, he's been highly effective in showing himself capable and trustworthy," Briony said, twisting a piece of her hair around her finger idly. 

Remus poked his head into the room. He'd heard voices, but he hadn't been expecting to be the last one present. "Hello," he said calmly, shutting the door behind him, and turned to look at everyone.

"Briony was the first one here." Jeremy glanced back at Remus with a slight smirk. "I think it's a hint, mate."

"Hiding," Skylar supplied brightly.

"Oh really, do we have to do this every time?" Conor wondered. Although he would never admit it, he was slightly concerned. "There are things to discuss."

"Well if people are looking for me in Remus's room they're certainly going to think twice about knocking on the door," Briony added in agreement with her Father. "Can we please move on?"

"Ah. Yes, shall we?" Remus said neatly.

"Well, if you want," Jeremy reasoned, locking the door tightly with a few charms. "I have an announcement. Much to everyone's surprise, I'm sure."

Conor suddenly saw the downside of taking orders from a teenager. "Can we stop with the pithy comments and get to it? There's other things to do."

Jeremy ignored that, although the point was very well taken. "As I was saying, Barty Crouch Senior, head of Magical Law Enforcement, has all but declared war against the werewolves. There's not much he can do, but Fenrir will hear soon enough and it's going to hold him back. The more he's held back, the more he'll be paying attention to the pack, so we may have a delay on our hands."

"Has he really," Remus said slowly. That was certainly news, and not good news.

"Unless we move faster, rather than slower," Briony said. Not that she was looking forward to the war would come after, but it was an option.

"Faster? I'm already bringing five at a time, you don't think they're going to notice over ten vanishing every two weeks?" Jeremy couldn't help but tense at this idea. _Faster?_ What more could he do?

"Calm down, Curenton, there's ways to make this work," Conor said. He touched wolves to Briony to give hers an approving nudge. "Take them out six at a time, the long way, while Remus and I make Fenrir unable to stop thinking about a war on Hati. If nothing else, you have all proven yourselves quite adept at starting mass hysteria."

Jeremy sat up straight, his gaze far off. "That's _it!_ "

"What's what," Skylar prompted him patiently.

Jeremy felt lightning-struck, ridiculously _comfortable_ in this role, and inspired. "All of this has worked because he thought there was a threat," he said, appraising his fellow saboteurs as he looked around the room. "He thought it was me, or Laurel, or any one of us, and that's what made him fail. And now what's he got to fear? Barty Crouch -- but that's something he can't combat. We need to give him something he can, make him paranoid about something he can beat. We need to convince him that Hati's a real threat -- that _she's_ going to march on him and he has to make the first move."

Remus allowed himself a moment of cynicism. "Yeah. That'll be difficult," he said dryly. "Which is to say not at all."

"And you haven't even met Hati. I'd be afraid she was going to march on me just from a sideways look," Jeremy said, then looked sideways at Conor. "Sorry, the pithy comments are a genetic condition."

"She never would," Conor said, terse. "Fenrir would have to be a real fool to think that Hati would do such a thing, that house of hers is a fortress, everyone knows that -- likely now more than ever. They're probably prepared for siege if nothing else -- "

"You're not using your imagination," Jeremy interrupted. "We can make him think whatever we damn well want him to."

While Jeremy ignored the insult he’d just given Conor, Briony didn’t. "It's about... appealing to his ego," she said, sitting up. "And... and the... you know, of it all..."

"Megalomania?" Remus provided.

"Right," she said.

"There's a line we're going to have to make sure we don't cross, though," Jeremy added, urgent. "The one thing that Hati has that Fenrir doesn't is wands, and if Fenrir feels threatened by Hati's wands he may reach out to the Death Eaters, and that's a risk we don't want to take. I guess we're going to have to make Hati look like an idiot and not use her strength."

Make Hati look like an idiot. The corners of Briony's mouth twitched upward as she looked up at Conor, and found she had only four words for Jeremy. "Good luck with that."

It had sounded stupid in his head and it sounded stupider out loud, Jeremy knew. "I didn't mean it like that," he said.

Conor couldn't help some amusement. "But that's what you said," he said, sharing Briony's amusement. "'Make Hati look like an idiot.' Any ideas on how to do that, Curenton?"

"Yeah, actually." Speaking without allowing himself to think twice about the difficulties of things really made it easier to think up mad things that worked. "Have her send a werewolf here either as an envoy or as a threat. Or even on an attack. Even better if someone gets hurt."

"One would certainly have to be stupid to do either," Remus allowed. "Would she do that?"

"I think it's more a matter of 'can Jeremy talk her into it'," Skylar said.

"What do you mean, can I? She'll probably try to hex me if I even suggest it, but she can't deny that the plan works. After all," Jeremy said, with a note of finality as he looked to Conor, "it worked on you. So... warn him of the threat of Hati, he'll laugh you off, keep it going, keep the news of Crouch from him as long as you can, and once he does find out -- if Yaxley comes -- we'll spring the trap of Hati's underhanded attack to distract him. Anything else?"

"Don't you dare talk about the death of my first like that, like it was nothing but a play in a Quidditch playbook," Conor snapped, lashing out with his tone and against the tie with Briony. "Don't you _dare!_ "

Briony's breathing stopped for a second at the suddenness of the mental impact and she closed her eyes against it. _Geoff._ It still hurt after all this while, and it shouldn't have.

"His death was awful," Skylar started carefully, eyeing Briony, and then Conor. "Losing a member of the pack, a first son, is awful. But it _was_ a play, for Fenrir.”

Jeremy shook his head. "All the deaths in this war have been awful, Geoffrey's, all those lost in _all_ those wars, those who were just butchered at the Den, hell, _Laurel's_ death was awful from what I heard, and they're all plays. This isn't your daddy's werewolf war, if we go along the lines of your usual rules, we'll _lose,_ " he said flat-out. "The only way to win is to step outside that box, that's how Fenrir won and that's how we're beating him. Don't get philosophical, just _win._ Who next? We can't kill Wesley -- whoever was sent from Hati's pack would never survive." He sighed and his gaze fell on the most silent of any of them. "Remus."

The mention of Laurel's name made his skin crawl. It would forever, he was sure of it. He glanced up, and met Jeremy's glance. "We've gotten this far because we played with Fenrir's rules and manipulated an order and system that he's established." They'd learned to work the system to their advantage so well it was nigh sickening.

"No, no, Remus." Jeremy sent him a grin. "Remus, Hati's werewolf is going to attack you. Who else?"

"Of course, who else," he echoed.

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. "Take a play from Fenrir's playbook, as it were. Of course, to make sure they don't think Conor's in league with Hati -- forgive me, Conor, but it'll be his first thought, trust me -- Conor's going to have to react violently in opposition. In part, at least, on behalf of his daughter."

"You're going to convince Hati to send one of her werewolves to attack Remus, and have me urge war at that," Conor repeated. "You're really depending on Fenrir to get caught up in the moment, aren't you?"

"I think that the strategy of keeping Fenrir distracted and following the commands of our people has yet to fail," Jeremy said smoothly, "and you can't deny that Fenrir likes to get caught up in the moment. Any protests, cries of outrage? Hati's all but declaring war, ladies and gents."

"Fenrir likes his dramatics," Remus said to Conor. 

"He _loves_ his dramatics," Briony corrected.

"My wife corrects me too," Jeremy said, not even bothering to hold that comment back.

"Does she ever tell you to shut up?" she asked in response with a look that would have made Medusa think twice.

Jeremy sent her an innocent smile, unfazed. "All the time. Keep practising that look, in a few years you might rival Hati."

"I think you may find Hati more difficult to convince than you think," Conor said, standing, "but I have nothing more to say. Move faster," he added to Jeremy. "Briony's right. Take them out more and more often. We'll make him paranoid." He nodded to Remus. "We can handle that. You deal with the unnameds." _Stand,_ he commanded Briony over their tie.

Jeremy wore a bitter sort of smile. "Don't underestimate me, Conor."

Briony looked up at Conor, but except for the look obeyed without question. "Don't underestimate Fenrir," she replied. He hadn't as of yet, he had estimated him quite well, but there was a first time for everything and they were too close to winning to screw it all up with one false move now.

Jeremy laughed. "If anything I'm overestimating. Sky, anything before we go? Remus? I trust you lot, go forth and wreak paranoia."

"Not for the general assembly," Skylar said, contemplatively tapping her fingers. "But I do need to speak with you. I think."

That surprised him, though maybe it shouldn't have; Sky actually seemed more reflective than cheerful, which was uncommon. "Great. Mind giving us some privacy, all?" Jeremy asked, tone bright.

Conor said nothing further, tugging Briony behind him gently as he left the room.

Remus waited only as long as he needed to before following after Conor and Briony, nodding to each of them left, and closed the door tightly behind him. Skylar turned back to Jeremy and smiled, although it came out slightly more worried than she meant it to. "It's nothing awful terrible," she promised. "I just... wanted to perhaps talk about sending Gemma and Rory to the Den with you."

He hadn't been expecting that, so he took a moment to really think it through before outright denying the idea. "Sky," he said slowly, "what is it, why do you think they need to go?"

Skylar thought about her words for a second before she said, "I know they aren't small children anymore. And neither is Rory mine, but honestly, it's close enough that it hardly matters. I feel I've done them a great wrong keeping them here as long as I have, even though there were people you needed to get out of here faster than them. But they've risked their lives, they've done their part. For what comes next, I want them to be safe. If Keith were here instead of me, I would want him to do the same. They can be on whatever you think is going to be the last trip out of here, I understand it would be missed if they're gone, Gemma's not exactly... okay, she's loud, and Rory's practically been the permanent attachment to her right arm since the day they met. I want them safe now," she repeated, speaking with a great deal of calm to make up for the panic she was sure would rise if she let it.

"All right." Jeremy stretched out his legs and considered it. "We're going to have to split them up. We're going to pretend one of them ran away, and then the other one followed. Pick one and tell me, I'll send them along with the next group."

She nodded before she could go back on herself. God, moving them could be far stupider than keeping them there, what was she thinking? "I think it'd be more likely for Rory to be the run away." Not to mention, Skylar thought he would be the easier sell for going quietly.

"I thought so too, but I deferred to your superior knowledge," Jeremy said, with a nod. "Are you sure about this?"

"Not at all," she admitted, her second guesses having turned into third, fourth, and beyond over the time she'd been contemplating it. She closed her eyes. _Trust your instincts, they have carried you far,_ her wolf told her, and she nodded. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure. They'll be out of harm's way, if nothing else."

Jeremy nodded, and stood. "We should get them out before the war, at least. Tell Rory to talk to me when he can. Is that it?"

"Thank you," she said, feeling a little better. She smiled again, more genuinely this time. "That's it from me," she added at that, as she stood.

He sent her a smile. "Thanks. It's good to know someone's looking out for the kids besides Wesley," he added. "Keep up the good work." He Disapparated.

Her kids, anyway, or the closest she would ever get. Without much more time to herself, Skylar left Remus's room and made her way down the staircase to look for Rory. Gemma would come easier if she knew Rory was on board, and he would be more likely to be on board if she saw him alone.

~*~

In months since she'd been snatched and bitten, little Mercy Smith had grown up considerably. Not physically -- she had the same bony, lithe build that had left her playing Seeker in games of backyard Quidditch, but she was different. Older. Since her first difficult months, under the guidance of Fenrir and Wesley, she had grown to somewhat nearly perfect harmony with her wolf. Beth had caught on to it within days, and Josiah hadn't taken it quite as hard as she had, but she looked at it as something she had earned rather than won.

With both of her siblings quite well adjusted to pack life -- in fact, their problems seemed few -- Mercy herself had to find her niche in the pack. Inexplicably, though Fenrir was her father, she found herself more drawn to Wesley. Her wolf's brother, for lack of a better term. This had led to her using her athleticism for other means -- learning to fight.

She looked up at Wesley from the flat of her back, in the grass. Well, she _was_ still learning. "I didn't do that right," she said, blinking.

"No, you didn't." Wesley considered her, then eyed the house and the group of children playing tag some distance away. Then he looked down at her again. "Get up."

Mercy scrambled to her feet and blew her overgrown fringe out of her face, waiting for him. He gave her a crooked smile. "You're small. It's an advantage and a disadvantage. But you're using too much force -- it doesn't matter how hard you hit, it matters where." He paused, brushing his hair out of his face, and reached for one of his knives. "I have a gift for you."

She looked at his hand reaching and for a moment she was speechless, instead reaching to him with her wolf. "I don't... I can't," she said immediately.

"You can't," he repeated, drawing out the knife and easily holding the handle out to her. "Why can't you?"

"It's yours," she said slowly, but reached for the handle, mesmerised all the same. She took the knife and held it in her hand, feeling the weight of it.

"If you earn it, then it's yours." Wesley watched her, not sure he could make himself take it from her. It fit too well in her hand. "Only then. Would you like to learn?"

She ran a finger along the edge of the blade, careful to not let it actually cut her. "Yes," she answered.

"Sit with me," he ordered, his wolf giving hers a nudge, and he reached for his other knife as he sat on the ground. Mercy eagerly dropped to the ground across from him, close enough so that he could speak to her.

Wesley shone light off the edge of his knife, caught Mercy's reflection in it, and the corner of his mouth turned up. "Knives are meant to draw blood," he said finally, and opened his palm. "Fast, and sharp, and almost painless. That's why you use a knife." He pressed it into his palm, the knife biting into his skin and drawing blood. "No weakness, no hesitation, no squeamishness." He looked up at her. "Go on."

Mercy looked back at him, at the knife, and finally at her free hand. She had only a moment's hesitation before she imitated Wesley, pressing the knife's edge into the palm of her hand. It began to cut, and she flinched slightly as the thin red line of her blood appeared along the blade.

"A lesson for the knife and for everything, Mercy," he said, tossing his knife to his other hand and touching her head with the other. "The sooner you're always prepared for pain, the less it surprises you. And then you never hurt again."

She closed her fingers over the stripe, feeling it sting with each beat of her heart. "The worst part of pain is the surprise," she said to herself, as though making a note. A throat cleared and she jumped, looking up at the first of the pack.

Remus wasn't sure which was more disturbing, that a thirteen-year-old girl was sitting there with a sliced palm, or that she was sitting there with a sliced palm while Wesley sat across from her in a similar state. "Ah, apologies for interrupting," he told them, feeling very awkward indeed, "but if I may borrow you for a moment, Wesley."

Wesley gave a brisk soldier's nod, and looked to Mercy. "Go see your sister, she can bind that for you. I'll find you later. And beware the element of surprise," he added, almost joking, as he stood.

Remus began to wash the image from his brain as Mercy stood and left them to find Bethany. Not that he'd ever seen Wesley as one for small talk, that didn't stop him from trying to ease into conversation with, "How is she learning?"

"Best you can ask for, from a girl. She'll be formidable in a few months, unstoppable in a year." Wesley smiled as she shut the door behind her. "She has the poise." He dropped the soft look, looked back to his Father's heir, and straightened. "She'll do good work for this pack."

He nodded slowly, expression passive. He'd been somewhat afraid of that -- the Smith kids were going to be too far in to get out. "Good," he said.

He nodded again in return, and lovingly wiped the blood from the knife before returning it to its sheath. "What do you need, Remus?"

He breathed in, and out once. "I think between... what happened to Laurel and Curenton's punishment for his seeming involvement, any bit of rebellion's been scared out of them. But you know what to look for," he informed him. He prepared to agitate. "A good thing. Every wolf will be needed against Hati."

"Against Hati," Wesley repeated, regretting the echo of the name, the only name that made doubt appear on his Father's face. "You're right. Of course. We do mean to bring the bastards along, there shouldn't be any risk. And any risk shouldn't be a problem." He gestured to the handle of his knife.

"Of course not. Vigilant as always," he noted. Looking at that knife made him uneasy. "The fight should be a fast one."

"She has wands." But he had to banish the uneasiness from his voice, that was weak. Fear dulled the mind. "We'll be ready for them. With your help."

"The wands won't be a problem for you," Remus told him. At that point he looked over at Wesley and swallowed. "Worry about the people who aren't going to have them."

"I'm not afraid of her," Wesley said; his hand rested on his knife, for comfort. "I'm not afraid of any of them. I'd kill them now if you gave the order. Hati herself."

If he could get close enough. The way Jeremy told it, Hati and her pack were well guarded -- but then again, this was Wesley, and Remus had no doubt that if he gave the word, he would go. "Soon enough," he told him. "You'll get a shot soon enough."

Wesley nodded, then scoffed, vigilantly watching the children far off. "It won't be soon enough. She's an abomination. A woman at the head of a pack, a mother instead of a Father. She'll be better off here, if she survives."

Remus looked at the children as well. He watched Gemma pick herself up off the ground and immediately bounce back. "Depends on whether Fenrir thinks that she'd be a danger here, I expect," he said. "Which she probably would be."

He simply shrugged in return. "They say she carries a wand -- that she can read minds. But I think we could break her, given the time. The Scrimgeours," he added to Remus, pointing at two boys who wrestled on the ground. "They tried to cling to their wizarding roots, but here, in the unified pack, it's irresistible. It's how we're meant to be, and here, we're free."

"They've adjusted," Remus conceded. Another pair they would probably not see out of the pack. It didn't leave him with a good feeling. "That's what it is. An adjustment."

"I'm surprised at Ben Skoll's boy, Rory. Do you know him? You'd have seen him around Bethany," Wesley supposed, his hand drifting away from his knife. "Right there." He pointed. "Taller every day, I swear. Clever, if nervous. A named son of a named son, so he's almost salvageable."

"Yes," he said, and looked. Rory was not difficult to pick out, tall amongst the children. "He is quite intelligent," he said reluctantly, feeling as though it may have done him a disservice -- but the less attention drawn, the better.

"Still, one of Ben Skoll's. Still attached to Skoll's girl. That must be fixed." He looked a bit perturbed at that.

"She's not been a concern," Remus said mildly. "There will be plenty of time once the pack is together."

Wesley's head dropped into a respectful nod. "If you consider her to be trustworthy, Remus."

"At the moment," he replied.

"Just let me know." Everyone knew that Remus could observe and speak, but action was hardly his strength.

"Of course." Skylar was glue, as far as their little group of saboteurs was concerned, and it was no wonder. "I'll leave you to them, then. Children, obviously," he clarified.

"Yes, of course," Wesley echoed with faint amusement. Any other order might have killed him with the shock. "You must have things to look after, and I should make sure Terry hasn't killed Byron yet." He allowed the wolf to give Remus's a familiar touch, and wiped what blood remained off on his shirt before heading up towards the kids.

Remus touched back, more out of habit than anything else, and slid his hands into his pockets. For a moment he watched as Gemma tried to chase Rory -- it was difficult to chase when the chased wasn't moving, but it was so typically them that he had to smile a bit. He went back towards the house and back inside in an unusual humour from the sight.

~*~

When it came to wizarding pureblooded society and its hierarchy, the Davises fell somewhere between the second and third tier, but Isabelle Davis had spent her life attempting to change that. Today showed her work worthwhile -- today showed how far her family name had come with all of her efforts. She restrained a much more enthusiastic smile in favour of one that more closely mirrored the one on Miss Umbridge's face as they made their way down the walk to the front door of Malfoy Manor.

"Tea with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy," Dolores said, her smile widening at the girl's excitement. "An honour, you must know! Very private, intimate."

"I do consider it an honour, Miss Umbridge." Isabelle had caught glimpses of the Malfoys, but the idea of being in their Manor, nonetheless drinking their tea and conversing openly with them, was almost too much for her.

Umbridge cleared her throat. "Miss Davis... remember we come here with a purpose. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are very important people, very influential people, and they have something we need -- but they are still _people._ We can hardly come all this way just to leave without what we need! We're _here_ to drive a bargain."

At that, Isabelle genuinely smiled, it settling into a smirk as she realised the power she really did hold. "And we will win that bargain, Miss Umbridge," she said. Her heart leapt into her throat as they approached the door, and knocked.

Narcissa Malfoy was not one who worried constantly about who was on their property -- after all, she had nothing to fear. Appearances had to be kept, though, and unfortunately that meant their wards had gone off, setting poor Draco to whimpering in the bassinet they kept in the parlour. "Shh, there, there," she told him, smoothing a hand over his fine, blonde hair. "Dobby," she commanded, and waited for the House Elf to appear before giving her orders. "Answer the door and then go find Lucius. Our guests have arrived."

The House Elf nodded quickly. "Yes madam, very quickly!" he answered smartly, but didn't dare say any more on risk of having to iron his hands again. He disappeared and reappeared at the front door, pulling it open to admit Umbridge and Isabelle. "Welcome misses, please follow Dobby."

Isabelle barely managed to keep her lip from curling, but Miss Umbridge didn't look at the beast at all, so she kept her expression blank and simply followed. The manor was beautiful; she had seen pictures, but they hardly compared. She stopped right away, though, at a sight unparalleled in the manor -- Lucius Malfoy himself. "Miss Umbridge," he greeted. "And this must be your assistant."

"Oh, Lucius, how lovely to see you," Umbridge simpered, accepting his hand and shaking it, only then gesturing to Isabelle. "Might I introduce you to Miss Isabelle Davis, Bradley Davis's daughter, my very capable and right-minded assistant in all sorts of ... _messy_ policy areas."

Dobby wrung his hands nervously and got as close to his master as he dared to break in and say, "Madam is waiting in the parlour for you all, sir."

"You might have said that earlier, elf," Lucius said tersely. "Go on, run along. This way, if you will," he added to the two women, gracious as always, and led them to the parlour. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Davis, and I'm _certain_ my wife will feel the same, if all I've heard of you is true."

It was enough to start a flush in Isabelle's cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but Umbridge was giving her a pointed look (with just her eyes, her polite smile remaining), and she simply said, "Thank you, sir."

Draco had calmed down by the time Lucius lead Madam Umbridge and the girl in, thankfully. "There's my strong, handsome boy," Narcissa murmured to him with a slight smile, and then straightened. "Hello, Lucius -- and welcome to both of you," she greeted her husband and their guests.

Lucius moved to stand beside his wife, glancing down at his son for a cursory moment. Before he could speak, Madam Umbridge was smiling and speaking up. "Narcissa, it's truly a pleasure. I'd like you to meet Isabelle Davis, my assistant in policymaking."

"Bradley Davis's daughter," Lucius murmured to his wife.

_Ah._ The glint in the girl's eye immediately made sense now, although Narcissa kept that to herself. "I'm pleased to meet you, Isabelle," she told the girl.

"I -- thank you, Mrs Malfoy, it's an honour," Isabelle returned, with a certain amount of pride that she managed to stay reserved.

"Shall we sit, then?" Lucius suggested, and pulled out the chair for his wife. "So many things to discuss."

"Of course," Narcissa agreed. "Sit, please," she added to Umbridge and Isabelle, letting them take seats before she did as well.

Umbridge glanced aside at the girl just barely, to keep her from squirming in her chair like a child, and accepted her cup of tea. "In such dangerous times it's a lovely thing to see a family doing so well. How is your Draco?"

"He's doing very well," Narcissa answered, casting a cursory glance to their son. "Growing so quickly, and he's strong as well. How is your work at the Ministry?"

"Oh, it has its _difficulties_ as always -- I imagine you saw the piece in _The Daily Prophet_ about our esteemed Department Head," Umbridge said, with a thin smile.

"Ah, yes. Yet another man who is content to lay their problems on Barty Crouch's shoulders. Assuredly, though, there isn't a more capable man in Britain than Mr Crouch," Lucius said.

Isabelle set down her tea. "It's a pity that even our Department Head doesn't have faith in the people of our Department to do what we must with the resources we have," she said, ignoring the issue of Crouch.

"Are you suggesting that your Department is lacking in resources?" Lucius said directly to the girl.

"Mr Scamander is the one who said that, sir." Isabelle cleared her throat. "I only mean to say that there are employees in the Department who have new ideas for new ways to deal with the... _dangerous_ magical creatures that have emerged over the course of this war, but Mr Scamander only sees his precious, costly and outdated programs as assets."

"I do hope you manage to convince Mr Scamander otherwise," Narcissa said. "Some... _things_ are far too dangerous to be allowed to continue. And if he cannot handle his department, he should not be in charge of it."

Lucius glanced aside at his wife, with the start of a smirk. "Well, he is _very_ qualified for the job, overqualified perhaps in the area of magical creatures, but I ... can't say that he is the sort of political mind necessary at a time like this."

"Oh, _truly,_ Lucius," Umbridge agreed, with a gentle frown. "The very idea of a man who neglects his own Department, criticises his employees, and then dares to criticise the choices of a greater man who is expertly running the largest Department in the Ministry in the midst of a war..."

"The leadership is a problem, but Mr Scamander is as alive and active as ever, so his retirement isn't exactly imminent." Isabelle picked up her tea and dared look at Narcissa. "The creatures that terrorise the people of wizarding Britain, _they_ should be our first priority."

Narcissa's smile was small and polite, but geniune for all that. "You're a bright girl," she said. "But so young to be helping Madam Umbridge, Isabelle. How long have you been working for her?"

Isabelle didn't look over at Madam Umbridge, but she certainly knew the look she was getting, and composed herself quickly. "Oh, it's been... a year and a half at least. I work specifically for the Werewolf Registry, though, the policy work is all volunteer... "

"The _Werewolf_ Registry," Lucius mused. "It's no wonder you say these things, you've seen Scamander's bumbling firsthand."

Isabelle smoothed her hair. "It's a modest operation, but I do what I can with what we have. The werewolves haven't been tracked, tagged, not for _decades,_ there's just _paperwork._ There needs to be more regulation, more control, and that -- "

"That is one of the many things we're looking into," Umbridge segued neatly. "There are all sorts of details that need working out, but we have high hopes for the Department."

"Ah, I see." Narcissa nodded and lifted her teacup. "Well, volunteer or not, she is certainly lucky. The Registry will also benefit -- of course, it isn't as though that's difficult to do."

Isabelle smiled slightly. "Not at all. Not that werewolves deserve the help," she dismissed, "but we can hardly have the children of upstanding pureblooded wizards suffering at their hands. Our families shouldn't have to live in fear."

"Well, it's _hardly_ about making friends with them, I should think," Lucius said, bemused. "Regulation and control, if anything. Newt Scamander can tell us as many times as he likes that some of his pets are Beings, not Beasts, but with one glance to those poor families..."

"Something must be done," Umbridge finished, with her pointed gaze set just as firmly on Lucius as her smile.

"Certain families, at any rate," Narcissa added as she sipped her tea. "It's nice to see that there are _some_ people working in our government who still have the right idea of it."

"Some families are more important than others, and those who try to deny it are ... delusional. Or jealous," Isabelle said wryly.

"Miss Davis, please," Umbridge chided immediately.

"It's all right, Madam Umbridge," Narcissa said. "I'm sure Isabelle knows what is appropriate to say where -- and there is... an order to the world. A hierarchy. Without it, there is chaos."

Umbridge's smile brightened. "Oh, well-said! Just look at what the magical creatures do when we let them, they lash out like children."

Lucius rested his hand on his wife's knee, and smirked. "Madam Umbridge, you know my Narcissa is more than a pretty face."

Narcissa smiled in reply to that and simply covered Lucius's hand with her own. "It's even simpler than that. The order has been upset and that is how this war has gotten out of hand."

"Thank Merlin there are people willing to set things back in place," Isabelle said fervently, indulging a smile. "These... troubles will soon come to an end."

"Oh, _certainly,_ and then it's your job to carry it on," Umbridge said with a smile, and patted her hand.

Dobby reappeared in the sitting room and squeaked out, "Sir -- Mister Fudge is here, sir, to see you."

Lucius couldn't keep from looking pleased. " _Is_ he, well, that could only be good news. Escort him here, elf."

Umbridge gave Isabelle's hand a light slap as her eyes widened. "What a stroke of luck," she said keenly to the girl.

Isabelle's hand still tingled, and so she simply smiled, faltering. "Yes, well, I -- yes."

Narcissa couldn't help but appear a little amused as Dobby left with a crack to do as his master bid. "I'm afraid things are going to get quite boring quite quickly," she told Isabelle in a conspiratorial manner.

"Very true, we've all sorts of things to sort out," Lucius said airily. "No matter how much power one holds, _everyone_ is beholden to paperwork."

Isabelle glanced to Madam Umbridge, who wore the same smile as always, then shyly glanced up at Narcissa. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs Malfoy, it's been an honour..."

"Think nothing of it," Narcissa answered.

Cornelius Fudge followed the House Elf to the sitting room where he said Lucius and Narcissa were entertaining, bowler hat in hand. "Ah, Lucius! Good afternoon -- and to you, Mrs Malfoy, of course, so sorry to interrupt..."

"It's no trouble at all," Lucius said, all amiable. "Just a spot of tea with Madam Umbridge and her, ah, assistant -- "

"Cornelius," Umbridge greeted warmly, rising and indicating with a pointed look to Isabelle that she do the same. "What a _surprise,_ a pleasure of course -- have you met Miss Davis yet?"

"I can't say I've had the pleasure, no," he answered, but nodded to the girl. "Hello, Miss -- Davis, it was?"

"Isabelle, Isabelle Davis, it's an honour, sir," she managed, smiling broadly at him.

"Bradley Davis's girl, I'm sure I've mentioned her, and all the work she's done," Umbridge added, clapping the girl on the shoulder. "Remember her name, I'm _certain_ you'll be hearing it again."

Lucius sent Narcissa a weary look, and indicated the girl with a tilt of his head.

Narcissa immediately took her husband's meaning, and put down her tea on the table and stood. "I'll excuse myself, I'm sure you have plenty of business to discuss without me being in the way," she smiled demurely, and moved to the bassinet, picking up Draco. "Isabelle, perhaps you'd like to accompany me in taking Draco back to the nursery? We can let them do business and... talk."

"Of course," Isabelle said instantly, forcing herself not to glance backward for permission from Madam Umbridge, and simply sent Fudge her most demure smile. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Fudge."

"Likewise, my dear, likewise," Fudge replied with a courteous nod.

"Have a seat, Cornelius, let's get to it," Lucius said, gesturing to the seat Isabelle had vacated.

"Thank you," he said, and sat in the girl's place, perching his hat on the arm of the sofa.

Narcissa smiled slightly as Isabelle closed the door behind them. "Back rooms and sitting rooms," she said. "Where the politics and deal making _really_ happens."

~*~

The only quiet morning in the unified pack came after the night of the full moon. Those who lacked control lay asleep and aching, and those who had it mended wounds and rested. Conor made himself comfortable as always and waited for Fenrir to arrive like the proud Father he was with the newest member of the Pack in tow.

Every full moon that a name and address was delivered to him, Fenrir ran out like the leashed dog he was to bring a new pack member home. Every time, the next morning, Fenrir showed Conor the fruits of his morbid labour, like a proud little boy showing his parents a perfect mark.   
Conor supposed it could be worse. Fenrir thought he was doing good, not harm, and so it wasn’t completely malicious, at least in intent. He went out and kidnapped children because he thought he was saving them from a worse fate, and offering them a utopia. 

Yes, he supposed it could be worse. Still, rejoicing over an injured child wasn’t his preferred way to spend the day after a full moon. 

He didn’t have long to wait. Only an hour after he woke, there was a knock on the door, and he called out, “Come in.” 

Fenrir fumbled with the doorknob, and Conor stared curiously at the door until it opened, and it became evident what the trouble was. Conor climbed to his feet quickly, and saw Fenrir’s pale and startled look. “What?” he asked, though he knew the answer. 

“I need your help,” Fenrir said tonelessly. 

It took ten minutes for Conor to find the shovel and break through the ground. Fenrir rested the little girl’s body next to the hole Conor labored on and watched on. “Too young,” he said. 

Fenrir being contrite about taking a child, that would be a first. “You were following orders,” Conor responded, grunting at the effort of digging on such a day. 

“Too young to handle it. Look at her, four or five. One in ten survive at that age. Like Remus,” he said, with a touch of pride. 

Conor couldn’t make himself look at the girl, but he had to, so he did. Her face was clawed to shreds, but she was a fair redheaded girl with freckles, by all indications. If she was alive, the sun now rising would burn her, but Fenrir had killed her. “These things happen, Fenrir.” 

Fenrir remained silent and hung back at that, until the grave was nearly dug. Barely audibly, he said, “I lost control.” 

Conor glanced up but not directly back at Fenrir, not sure whether he had imagined that. “Did you.” 

“Don’t patronise me,” Fenrir snapped, his voice raising in an instant. “Don’t look down on me, bastard.” 

Conor set down the shovel. “I’m not patronising you,” he promised, with as much sincerity as he could summon. “I’m… only surprised.” 

“You know better. You know – ” Fenrir gave a harsh laugh. “You know that it wasn’t just this once.” 

Well, anyone could tell that Laurel’s death and apparent betrayal had shaken Fenrir to the core, but never had anyone discussed it, not even the saboteurs. The idea that Fenrir, Greyback’s cherished son, the epitome of what it was to be the werewolf at war, would lose control, it was almost too absurd to be entertained. Yet, here he was admitting it. “I would never – ” 

Fenrir gave Conor a shove hard enough that made the older man have to stumble to make sure he didn’t fall into the grave. “Conor, I’m not as stupid as you might like to think,” Fenrir snapped off. “I see how you look at me. I see you whisper with your bitch.” 

Conor just glanced down at the dead girl in her bloodied pajamas. “We have business to attend to, Fenrir.” 

Fenrir followed his gaze, and knelt to pick up the girl. He lowered her into the grave as best he could, where she splayed out like a sick, disfigured mockery of a sleeping child. Conor felt his stomach turn as Fenrir reached down, almost gently, to position the girl into something more natural. 

“We’re finished here,” he said shortly. “Come inside when you’ve finished with the grave.” 

“Fenrir,” Conor said, exasperated. 

“What?” Fenrir snarled. “What do you want?” 

“Of all of us, you need control the most.” Conor made himself say it. “You go out there every month to bring us new pack members. We can’t have them dead on arrival.” 

Fenrir grabbed Conor by the shoulders and turned him around to look him in the face. “I’m doing the best I can,” he hissed. “Do you understand that?” 

He reached out with the wolf as he saw Fenrir’s wolf wild, out of control, in his eyes. “You have … the weight of the world on your shoulders, I know that,” he said urgently, seizing Fenrir by the arm. “But you have to control yourself. You have to. We need you at the head of this pack. All of us need you. Do you understand?” 

Fenrir shoved Conor as hard as he could. “Do you _understand?_ ” he shouted, his voice choking near the end. “I can’t even control her!” 

Conor straightened and stared at him, wild and bewildered as he was. “No,” he said slowly, “You couldn’t. But she was a bastard, you can’t be blamed, there’s no controlling them.” 

There was a moment of silence before Fenrir just laughed, and kicked the pile of dirt, showering it over the dead girl. “ _You’re_ a bastard,” he pointed out. “I can’t control you either, can I?” 

“You can’t,” Conor said, with a slightly grim smile. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t trust me.” 

Fenrir snatched up the shovel and began to bury the girl with a savage sort of devotion. “I should kill you. I’ll kill you myself, just like I killed her. I’m never going to let any of you touch me again.” 

Just like that, Conor wasn’t so threatened. When Fenrir meant to do something, he didn’t threaten – he’d just do it. “You can trust me. You know that.” 

“I can’t trust you, Conor, if I can’t trust her, I can’t trust anyone, she was with me from the start, she was my first pack member and my most loyal and it was all a lie, every second of it a lie – ” Fenrir gave up on the grave and threw the shovel as hard as he could, breathing hard. 

Conor reached out with his wolf again to try to calm Fenrir, before Wesley arrived and planted the wrong ideas into his Father’s head. He put his hand on Fenrir’s shoulder, not backing off as Fenrir turned on him and glared, instead saying in his most calming tone, “Since you reclaimed my pack, Fenrir, I have done nothing to lose your trust. I advise you. I represent you. I will see you to the end of your unified pack, and beyond.” 

Fenrir scoffed, not looking at him. “Because I have Wesley on orders to kill your bitch the second you step out of line.” 

Conor simply shrugged. “Even so, you know you can trust me. You are my Father and I’m at your service.” 

It had been some time since Fenrir proved himself to be an impetuous child, but it was never clearer than it was now to Conor. As he stalked away, he said, “Bury the girl.” 

“Fenrir!” Conor couldn’t leave it at that. Fenrir looked back to him. “You’ve made your Father proud.” 

That was all it took – the change in his posture made it more than obvious that Fenrir was back in control, Fenrir the pack leader, and that was the most important thing. Conor sent him a weary smile, and Fenrir flashed the briefest grimace before returning to his pack house. It was back to the grave with Conor, made even worse by knowing that there were more grisly tasks to come.

~*~

All Jeremy wanted to do after bringing six unnameds and Rory out of the unified pack to the Den was either find his wife, sleep, or both, but he didn't have a choice in where he was headed next. There was no option of sending Julia with this message, or even seeing Julia at all -- he'd only be delayed. No, he had to set the unnameds up and head right off to Hati's, which made for a very long and intense day.

On top of that, Hati was probably going to glare at him. Great. 

Jeremy stepped outside, looking out at Swansea from the porch. Someone passing the house looked up at him and spat in the street, and Jeremy raised his middle finger without hesitation, only even slightly abashed when he heard the door close behind him. "Er," he started, looking back. "Oh." 

Rory drew himself up and made himself speak to the genius bloke who was to thank for all the good things happening, though it was nerve wracking. "Erm, Jeremy. Sir. I can call you Jeremy, right? I was just wondering if it's no problem if I just leave here -- the Den I mean, it's a good place I bet, but. I have to find Keith, he's my Father, I have to. I helped a lot with the things at the unified pack so I thought you might let me. Can I?" 

Jeremy looked down at the kid, exhaling as though releasing a great weight. "First off," he said, "you're out of the unified pack. You can do as you please. If you stay at the Den you won't have to follow any orders besides basic table manners and nonviolence. And maybe some chores. Secondly, if you want to go see Keith, all you have to do is come with me." Sky might have something to say about this, bringing Rory to the place where they'd be bringing war, but some things were more important, and they could easily bring Rory back to the Den for his own safety. "I’m headed there now." 

Rory's eyes widened, the wolf leaping to control and he could barely control it or himself. "Are you really, can you take me then, will you? What do I have to do? Are there rules there?" he asked, wary. 

"There are rules everywhere, Rory. And yeah, you can come with me. Just take my hand, all right?" Jeremy held out his hand to the kid. 

Rory carefully took his hand as though frightened it might explode, and nearly shouted as the darkness of some sort of magic engulfed him, and once his feet touched the ground again he fell to his knees. "HEY," he shouted indignantly, brushing grass off his knees and looking over at Jeremy, who was already walking up the hill. "What was that?" 

"Apparation," Jeremy said, flippant as he glanced back at Rory. "Now come on, they have guards and you don't want to get caught by 'em unawares. No worries, I've got you covered, if you stay close." He nodded to Rory as he caught up. "Good. We're set."

Adam heard the Apparation and kept his wand ready as he went to check it out, but lowered it when he saw the familiar face, followed by a not so familiar one. "Hey," he said with a grin, although he wondered why Jeremy was coming when he'd been sending Julia all this while. It worried him slightly. "You have a stalker," he noted with a nod to Rory.

"Hey, thanks for not killing me." Jeremy returned the grin. "Yeah, I do. Adam, this is Rory. Rory, this is Adam."

"He's got a wand. You both have wands. Why does everyone have wands all at once?" Rory demanded. "He used magic on me," he added to Adam. "He's a smart bloke and everything but he used magic on me. Where are we?" It had only just occurred to him.

Adam couldn't help but smile genuinely. It was like watching a hyperactive puppy. "Well, chatty," he joked, "I have a wand because I'm a wizard, and you're in Westmeath, Ireland. This is where Hati's pack lives."

"Yeah, and this is where Ben and Keith were going -- and have been -- since the attack on the Den. So come on," Jeremy said, giving Rory a slight nudge. "Hasn't been out of the unified pack for a day and he's already exercising his tongue."

"I'm here, you know," Rory said, a bit rebellious. "I can hear you."

Now Adam laughed. "Okay, come on. I'll take you both in," he said, motioning over his shoulder. He shot Jeremy a significant glance before he turned around and led them towards the house. "Watch your arse, though, Jane and David are out here, too."

"I've got us covered," Jeremy said, indicating that he held his wand. "Remus and I, we're dueling. I'm shite, but I should be able to take out a Death Eater at this rate."

Rory stopped dead in his tracks, staring up at the two older blokes. "There are Death Eaters here?" he repeated.

"No," Jeremy said immediately, "what I meant is, if they come, we want to be ready. Don't worry, come on."

"Okay," Rory said, slowly taking steps before he heard a shout of " _Reducto!_ " and ran for it.

" _Protego!_ " Jeremy blocked it with a Shield Charm and shot the nastiest Stinging Hex he could manage at David, who just managed to fight it off. "Rory!" he shouted to the kid, who glanced back just in time to trip over a tree root and hit the ground hard. Jeremy winced.

"Oh for the love of -- " Adam muttered, and reached Rory quickly, having taken off after him. He bodily lifted him off the mossy ground and set him back up on his feet. "Jesus, what's wrong with you, you wanker, can't you see we have a bloody guest?" he yelled back at David, indicating Rory.

"Well anyone for a mile can hear Jeremy talking about being ready," Jane said, catching up to David. "We had to test it."

David shook off the last effects of the Stinging Hex and looked back at Jane. "Did he compare notes with you? What is it with everyone and Stinging Hexes?" he asked.

"It disarms someone for longer if they don’t have a high pain threshold, does it matter?" Jeremy answered David's rhetorical question. "Did I pass your test, Jane?" He flashed her a smile.

"For today," she said.

"If I come here tomorrow, she'll kill me," Jeremy said to Adam. "She'll take my head off."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'vivisection,'" David interjected.

"Well, you know, they beat me to it," Jane said, glancing around Jeremy at the kid. "Who's your friend?"

Rory stared at Jane like she was going to turn him inside out, and hid behind Jeremy on second thought. Jeremy patted the kid on the shoulder, indicating with a nudge to his wolf that it was fine. "Jane, David, this is Rory. Rory, this is Jane, a witch from Conor's pack, and David, a wizard. Yeah, there's a lot of wizards here, that's something you might want to get used to."

"Edward left patrol, by the way," David added to the others. "Said Mam was calling him in, it was urgent. Speaking of, what the hell are you doing here yourself, Curenton?"

"Some messages can't be sent with a messenger, mate," Jeremy said, and put his wand away. "Couldn't put my wife through that."

"... Mhm," Adam said curiously, a sudden instinct to take this a bit more seriously striking him. "Well then, let's go."

"She's been handling everything these two manage to toss in her direction, this must be big," Jane said casually.

"Says the woman who put her on her arse her first trip back," Adam pointed out.

“Your mam's going to put me on a spit and roast me," Jeremy said, just as casually as Jane. "It should be fun to watch. There it is, Rory," he said in aside, pointing at the house.

"Oh," was all Rory could find to say, and he stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, oh," Adam said. "You know. It's home, that sort of thing."

"It's nice," Rory said quickly, "it's big. It's sort of like our pack house 'cept ours was smaller. And it's nicer than, well." He bit his lip and sank back behind Jeremy, reaching out with the wolf and relaxing a bit when Jeremy responded.

"It's a nice place," Adam conceded. "I do hope mam decides a spit on the front lawn would be better than trying to shove Curenton into the fireplace. A few inches shorter and you’d fit, mate."

"You need help," Jane decided.

"Undoubtedly. But who's going to give it to me?" He shrugged one shoulder and took the porch steps two at a time, reaching for the door.

Once the others were inside, Rory struggled past them and shouted "KEITH!" while reaching along their tie for _anything,_ just in case Jeremy had been lying.

"Keep it _down_ or by God I'll have someone's head on a pike tonight," Hati said loudly from the sitting room.

Jeremy looked over at Hati's sons and Jane. "I was wrong. She's going to put my head on a pike." Hati in a good mood was hard enough to deal with, a stressed Hati was going to be a real struggle.

"That'll keep the neighbours away," Adam answered in a deadpan, tucking his wand in his pocket. 

Ben had been in the sitting room, but someone (a not so large someone, by the sound of it) running through the house yelling Keith's name had caught his attention. "Keith's usually in back -- Jeremy?" he interrupted himself as he poked his head out into the foyer.

"BEN!" Rory scrambled without hesitation towards the Father of his entire pack (even if they weren't all together now, they were _still_ a pack) and looked up at him with admiration and just a bit of disbelief. "It's you, right?"

"Sky wanted to get them out of there, so I snuck this one out first," Jeremy said, wearily leaning against the wall as the trials of sabotage, travel and dueling wore on him. "He demanded to see his Father, and who am I to deny him? Gemma's coming within the next two weeks." He sent Ben a faint smile. "Good to see you."

"Oh dear god," Ben murmured, paying Jeremy no mind for the moment. His normally remarkable, hard won control was out the window when he laid a hand on Rory's hair; the wolf flat out rejoiced. He contacted Rory's wolf, joyfully. "It's me," he affirmed, brushing his hair back.

Rory released a slight laugh and the wolf leapt to control again, and then he was grinning. "We're _winning,_ " he said to Ben. "Dunno if they mentioned it here, Gemma and I helped a bit. We outsmarted _Wesley._ "

Ben reached out, looking for Keith, and pulled when he picked him up. _Come quick, I have something for you._ "Good work," he said warmly. "And we've heard, we hear a lot -- Jeremy's wife brings us news whenever she sees him," he added, glancing in the direction he figured Keith would be coming from.

Rory looked surprised, over at Jeremy, who looked a bit like he was about to fall over, and back to Ben. "Jeremy's _married?_ " he repeated, astounded. "To who?"

Ben was failing at not looking amused. "Her name's Julia. She's a witch, I'm sure you'll meet her if you hang around long enough," he replied and reacted when he sensed Keith coming near. 

Keith pushed his way through the door to the front part of the house and took in the usual suspects from whenever they had a visitor, plus one. He didn't trust himself to speak when he saw Rory for the first time in nearly two years. It seemed as though the silence was crushing him, but, white faced and tentative, he immediately and instinctively reached out to Rory with his wolf.

Rory felt the pull immediately and bolted directly to Keith's side, silently hugging him tight without a care for what anyone around thought. He pressed his face into Keith's shirt to hide the start of tears, but the wolf's frantic burst of joy was to blame for that. Really. _You're here._

_I'm sorry, forgive me._ Keith had stopped imagining this moment, because it didn't seem like it would ever come. But now Rory was actually there, and they joined in what he felt like his first real touch of pack in ages. "Hey kid," he said, and cleared his throat, not paying any attention to the tears forming in his own eyes.

"You're here," Rory said out loud, still in disbelief, and gripped the fabric of Keith's shirt. "I'm not leavin'. I'm not," he added stubbornly, if not with much force at all.

Keith glanced at Ben, who shook his head and lifted one shoulder. _Bit of a story, we'll sort it out,_ he promised. "Well, we'll see," Keith said evasively. He kept Rory close, but lifted his chin so he could look him in the face. "For now, why don't you come with me, and we'll leave them to the important things, right?"

Edward appeared from the doorway of the sitting room and looked in on the scene. "Hati's wondering if Julia is here," he said. "She's also wondering if she's going to have to put someone's head on a pike today, but I wasn't supposed to add that part."

Ben tore his eyes away from Rory and Keith and looked back to Edward, before casting his glance to Jeremy. "Well," he said carefully. "I would say that depends on what Curenton has to say that he couldn't send his wife to say for him."

Edward looked at Jeremy and the realisation that this was going to be big almost visibly crossed his face. "Come on, don't waste your time or ours," he said directly to Curenton, quickly indicating to Hati with a touch of their wolves a sense of what had just happened.

Jeremy drew himself up, mentally prepared himself for Hati's raptor-like stare, and sent Edward one of his usual cocky smiles. "I'll be right there." On his way to the sitting room, he added lightly to Ben with an indication to Rory and Keith, "Just when I forgot there was any good in the world."

Ben smiled. "Even if you end up with your head on a pike in the front lawn, you did something good today," he assured him.

"Well that's a comfort," Jeremy said in a deadpan, and hurried into the sitting room before Hati sent Edward back to drag him in personally. He shook Hati's hand as she stood and took the seat she indicated he should take. "Lovely to see you, really, I -- "

Hati waved off his niceities. "Ben, get in here!" She leaned forward to stare down Curenton. "You came here yourself. I expected your wife soon, since something’s going on – it’s said you’re moving six to eight unnameds at a time. But here you are. Why have you left the unified pack, instead of sending Julia?"

Ben turned away from Keith and Rory, even though the sight made his heart leap, and reentered the front room. He nudged the door closed with one foot, Jane and the two boys having snuck back outside at some point. "Why don't we just skip to business, then," Ben said blithely, and added with the proper amount of respect, "and just let him speak."

Jeremy barely managed to restrain himself from sending Ben any sign of gratitude, and leaned back in the surprisingly uncomfortable chair. Great choice by Hati, really. "The Ministry is claiming that werewolves are now a law enforcement priority," he said. "And when I say Ministry, I mean future Minister for Magic Barty Crouch. I'll spare you the politics and just give you the point. We can't afford for Fenrir to get spooked by this news and slow down, he'll notice what we're doing, so we need a diversion. We need a real reason for him to declare war on you. We need you to attack him."

The violent reaction of Hati and her wolf led Edward to speak for her again, heat rising in his face from the stressed tie between them. "You want us to declare war?" he said.

Ben had paid careful attention to what Jeremy said, and glanced at Hati. "This is your only foreseeable option, I presume," he said.

Jeremy wanted to yell _Stop being so literal!_ but with Hati glaring at him like that, he knew better. "I suppose it's as good as declaring war, but no, I'm not asking you to do that. I'm asking you to do to Fenrir what Fenrir did to Conor. Bait him. Make him declare war on you. All you have to do is send any one of your werewolves over to the unified pack in a staged attempt to kill Remus, Fenrir's first."

Hati lashed out at Edward as he started to speak, and spoke instead. "And by staged you mean... more theatrics. More of this sabotage nonsense, all to ensure Fenrir's distraction and inevitable war on me, which we'll win. Is that what you're saying? I have to resort to looking like I use the same tricks as him?"

"Well. As they say, fight fire with fire?" Ben guessed wryly.

"No one will blame you, I swear." Jeremy sighed. "If they do, their opinions won't really matter. Hati, your pack is the last one standing right now. Whose opinion of you are you so worried about? By the end of this everyone will remember you as the one who ended the unified pack, not the pack leader who resorted to a dirty trick. I promise you that."

"You have a habit of making promises, Curenton," Hati said wryly, glancing aside at Ben. "I'll be placing a life in your hands, and I believe in pack, more than most. I believe all members of pack are equal and losing any one of them hurts us as a whole. Don't promise me success, just tell me you'll do your best to bring my pack out of this alive."

Jeremy couldn't help but be a little bit insulted, but he supposed he deserved to be painted the way Hati thought of him. "I've never promised anything less than that," he said. "You'll need to pick someone as soon as you can. I have to have this plan developed by the time I go back to the pack."

Ben looked at Jeremy. More steps kept being inserted, and the more steps the more chances there were for a misstep, but there had been no missteps so far. He let his wolf regard the younger man's. "All we want is for our packs to come out alive," Ben told Hati. "It can be done. With agreement of the pack, obviously."

"The pack will have to agree," Hati said with a nod, and stood. "We'll gather them now. Take volunteers. I won't _pick_ one; my pack will know who the best option is, who they'll risk on this. You'll have to explain, of course. Ben, help me gather the pack. Curenton -- prepare yourself." The wolf nudged her and she let it brush against Ben's. _Thank you._ Only then did she leave the room with Edward at her side, both silent.

Jeremy waited for them to get presumably out of earshot before looking up at Ben. "Who do you think it's going to be?" He had no patience for democratic behaviour at this point, but he had to respect the rules of the pack.

"Hard to say," he said, rubbing his jaw. "There are a lot of fearless people in this house, but I still can't imagine there would be too terribly many of them who would be willing to jump into the unified pack with both feet purely for the purposes of attacking the heir, even if it is staged for the benefit of the whole plan. I guess we'll see," he added quixotically.

Jeremy flashed a wearily confident grin. "I figured Edward, to be honest. Hati will want a real show of strength, and Edward's one of her bloody guards even though he doesn't have a wand. She’ll feel like she's paid her due to this plan of mine, and she won't be threatened by me." He paused. "I can't believe she's threatened by me."

"Of course she's threatened by you," Ben replied. "You're a mastermind. You're bloody smart, and you know how to plan and enact. You're dangerous to know. Mind, a lot of people say the same thing about me and I wouldn't necessarily say it's the truth."

All joking was finished, now. "I think that if I made any sort of move to gain power and you were there to see me try, that you would take me down faster than you can say 'bastard pack leader,'" Jeremy said, his voice low. "It's a good thing for both of us that I'm not going to try."

Still, Ben couldn't help but smirk. "Yeah. I would. And you know that, so I’m not worried about it. Hang around, it won't take long to get everyone in here," he said, leaving Jeremy alone in the front room.

Jeremy watched Ben go, considerably sobered and feeling more exhausted than ever. The uncomfortable chair with its stiff arms provided a support that he unfortunately needed, because this was all becoming too much -- but the minute the thought crossed his mind, he stood and began to pace. There was no time to relax, there was no one and nothing to lean on, and there was no room for doubt. There was only victory hovering like the Golden Snitch out of reach.

Yeah. This was the biggest bet of Jeremy Curenton's life.

He waited at the window, his back turned from the door, for the pack to arrive and the real planning to start.


	23. The Dogs of War

_Mr Crouch offered his sincerest promise to the wizarding world that the Ministry would do everything in its power to contain and defeat the unholy alliance between the Dark Creatures and the Dark Lord, citing the terrorist actions of the werewolf community, led by fugitive Fenrir Greyback, as the first of Magical Law Enforcement's aims. In a move unprecedented so far in this war, the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, headed by eminent magizoologist Newt Scamander, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, announced today that they will be working in partnership to control and end the menace that werewolves pose to the wizarding community._ Mary Brookstanton, "The Dogs of War," _The Daily Prophet,_ 9 September 1981.

_September 1981_  
Barty Crouch was a firm believer in the necessity of a politician using all of the materials at his disposal to bring across the best possible situation for his people. With this philosophy in mind, he had enlisted more Aurors than any previous head of Magical Law Enforcement, carried on a powerful offensive against the Death Eaters, armed his Aurors with the Unforgivable Curses, restored integrity and reputation to _The Daily Prophet,_ but most importantly, there was talk of the position of Minister in his future. 

Minister Bartemius Crouch. He could only imagine the good he could do for magical Britain in that position. And at this point in his career, it was an inevitable step forward, though he was far too modest to say it out loud. 

It was with this in mind that he proceeded a step further in his campaign, his move to suppress the decidedly Dark motives of dangerous magical creatures such as werewolves. Today his office expected the arrival of a reporter named Mary Brookstanton, whose career consisted mostly of editorials and opinion pieces carefully tailored to offend only those who had no voice in important matters. This was bound to be her biggest story yet, and he intended on making it worthwhile. Hopefully she would prove herself to be worthy of being the one to handle this message. 

His door opened and a gathered, professional-looking young woman entered. "Mary Brookstanton, Mr Crouch," his assistant announced, and withdrew to close the door behind the reporter. 

He rose to greet her, shaking the hand she offered. "Miss Brookstanton, it's a pleasure," he assured her. 

"Mr Crouch, I am so honoured, thank you for the opportunity," Mary said, deferring with a demure smile. 

"It's no trouble at all, I assure you." Barty gestured for her to sit. "Shall we begin?" 

Obediently, she sat and waited for him to sit as well. "Of course. Now, if you could tell me about what's going on here in MLE recently?" 

He watched her set up her note-taking quill with parchment and ink, leaning back in his chair as he considered the question. "As always, our priority lies in combating the forces of You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. There are many fronts to this war, as everyone well knows -- the servants of You-Know-Who have developed innumerable tactics to terrorise us all, and have many allies who have aided them in their quest to paralyse and intimidate the people of wizarding Britain. Among these allies are the armies of Dark Creatures who agree with You-Know-Who's agenda of terror and intimidation and choose to align themselves with You-Know-Who to use his platform to bring across their own Dark agendas." 

"Dark agendas?" Mary repeated, her quill still rapidly taking notes. "Could you clarify, sir?" 

"Of course," Barty said, gracious as always. "There are many races, both Beasts and Beings, that are good friends of wizards -- we aid them, they aid us, and we coexist peacefully. There are some, however, who have purposefully turned against wizards and the help we offer, due to some single-minded racial agenda. Many of those races have found an ally as power-hungry and vicious as themselves in You-Know-Who, and have allied themselves with him accordingly." 

She nodded, quickly understanding his meaning, but there was nothing like getting a direct quote from the ever eloquent Bartemius Crouch to make your article instantly attractive to readers. "Are there any specific examples you would like to cite? Certain Dark agendas?" 

He clasped his hands and looked thoughtful as he thought how to frame the next quote. "Hm. Yes. The werewolves of Britain... they have made it painstakingly clear that they want nothing to do with the wizarding world. Over the years, the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has noticed a rise in werewolf aggression, which has been well-explained in recent years as coming from the example, and perhaps even leadership, of the fugitive werewolf Fenrir Greyback." 

Mary sent him an approving yet grim smile. "What is Magical Law Enforcement doing to combat these creatures and counteract these agendas?" she prompted. 

Ah, to the heart of it. Barty didn't even hesitate as he went on. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has taken an official stance against the terrorist actions of the werewolf community and we intend to take every action possible to counteract and contain the werewolf menace. We are working in partnership with the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to root the werewolves out and end the unholy alliance the Dark Creatures have with the Dark Lord." 

Her eyebrows rose as she quickly finished recording that quote, and barely hiding her excitement, she had to ask, "Do you have any remarks you'd like to add, anything to comfort the wizarding public in this time of trouble?" 

He lowered his glasses and spoke from the heart. "I would like to assure the people of wizarding Britain that their Ministry is doing everything it can to contain and defeat the forces that murder innocents and steal its children away in the night -- that their Ministry is doing everything possible to win this war and reclaim the lives of its people back from the terror that is attempting to conquer it. We will win this war, and things _will_ return to the way they once were, and that is a promise." 

She rose to her feet. "Thank you, Mr Crouch, it has been _such_ an honour, sir." 

He stood and shook her hand. "Thank you for your time, Miss Brookstanton," he said with a professional smile. As she withdrew and left the room with the glow of excited youthful optimism, he sat in his desk and surveyed his office, the papers and responsibility before him, and returned to the work of saving wizarding Britain from itself.

~*~

As the days wore on from the last time she saw Jeremy -- that was how Julia calculated time now, the more days she had gone without seeing Jeremy, the fewer it would be until she saw him again – she tried to get rid of the sense of impending doom she felt. Doom was perhaps the wrong word, but for lack of a better term, doom was impending. She ignored it, tried to shake it off, but it didn’t go away, and by mid-September it had turned into nausea. The nausea in turn culminated in her leaning over the toilet in the ladies’ loo at _Quidditch Weekly_ and vomiting up whatever happened to be in her stomach.

The first time she’d dismissed, the second in an hour was annoying, but the third unnerved her. All food from her breakfast was gone, the back of her throat burned with the stomach acid that was being expelled. Once she was sure this round was done, she left the stall and went for the sinks against the opposite wall. She looked at herself in the mirror on the wall. Her cheeks were flushed, she could feel the heat in them, but they looked as though they’d been painted. She was pale underneath, all that stood out was a childish smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

A flu wouldn’t come on that suddenly, she knew. She rubbed her hand across her mouth, and the light glinted off her ring in the mirror. Another fact struck her harder than she would have liked, when she realized something else. “Shit,” she swore to the empty bathroom. 

The rest of the day saw very little work being done, as Julia spent it obsessing over when her last menstrual cycle had been. The fact that she couldn’t remember a date, or even anything remotely recent was probably indicative in itself of exactly how long it had been. She’d worked herself from ‘slightly confused’ to ‘frantic’ by the time she went home to her tiny flat (two rooms, it could hardly be defined as such in her opinion but she paid practically nothing and it was a place to be out of her in-laws’ hair), and was fully prepared to spent the rest of the night going from ‘frantic’ to ‘hysterical.’ 

Except she saw her mother’s owl on her table, for a family birthday dinner. Daniel’s, in fact. She hadn’t seen anyone since July, for Abby’s birthday, when she’d finally told them all about her engagement to Jeremy, and then they’d been married by the end of the month. It hadn’t been an overwhelming success, although it was not that she precisely cared. Still, it would have been nice if the thought of having to deal with their collective reaction didn’t bring her nausea back in full force. She changed her clothes, grabbed her bag, and Disapparated before she could talk herself into skipping. 

The house near Haverfordwest was plenty big enough for four children to have lived there without much problem. It was still one of Julia’s favourite places – or the land around it was, at any rate – but once she got philosophical about it, she wasn’t sure that she called it home anymore. She lifted the latch to let herself in the front door, and immediately looked to the cloak rack. Her mother’s handbag hung there, and her sister’s did as well. Wonderful. “Hello,” she called.

“Julia?” the return call came from the dining room. Moira Frobisher emerged seconds later, looking as she always had -- somehow amazingly put together, but with an air of effortlessness and being busy. “Hello, darling.”

“Hi,” she echoed, letting her mother kiss her on the cheek. “Who’s here besides Abby?”

“Well, now that you’re here, we’re just waiting on Daniel. He’ll be late, they were working late on the Committee, bless their hearts – he’s bringing Heather as well, so the table will be a little bit more crowded than we’re used to. Come on in, we’ve got a bit of wine before dinner – “

The idea made Julia queasy, the nausea from the morning was still lingering. “Um, could I have tea instead? I haven’t been feeling so well today.” The truth, insofar as anything.

“Oh, sorry to hear that. Of course, tea, if you’d rather.” Moira was unabashed about it, which she counted as a good thing.

To her surprise, the tea actually settled her stomach a bit, and it didn’t want to crawl back up her throat. Eventually, Daniel and Heather arrived, complete with a story about a botched Charm that had contributed to their tardiness. Apparently they were told to get used to such things, being on the Experimental Charms Committee. Dinner unfolded pleasantly enough. Julia didn’t have to say much, she just sat in her seat beside Daniel and across from Michael and Abby, listening as everyone else. Things took an abrupt turn when she unthinkingly reached for the salt at the centre of the table, and all of a sudden her arm was yanked when her sister seized her wrist and turned her hand palm down before she cried, “ _What_ is _that?_ ”

Her ring glittered in the light; it was obvious what Abby was talking about. “Can I have my hand back?” she snapped, stuck in a half-standing position with her sister’s grip around her wrist.

“No! Answer my question,” Abby insisted.

Julia gritted her teeth. “Let me go. You’re killing my shoulder.” _And I’d like to be sick again but I’m not close enough to use your lap._

“Let go of her arm, Abby,” Matthew Frobisher said calmly. After a request from her father, Abby did so, and Julia sat back in her chair.

But now all eyes were on her, obviously waiting for the answer to the question that Abby had asked. She looked down at her ring, the row of tiny sapphires and diamonds on the band, and thought of where Jeremy kept his, on a chain around his neck – charmed invisible, naturally. “It’s my wedding ring,” she said, keeping her eye on it to avoid looking any of her family members in the eye.

The silence in the room was crushing, tempered with a palpable tension. “Heather, could I ask you to excuse us for a second?” Matthew asked in a tone that Julia recognized as exceedingly calm – a tone that she knew as being for the situations that were going to try their collective, non-existent patience. Heather Harper, being a girl of no mean intellect, perceived the changed tone in the room and quickly complied, excusing herself politely to the front room of the house.

Once she was gone, any restraint left the tension in the air, leaving it all the more intense. “Now, Julia,” Matthew started diplomatically. “What do you mean by that’s your wedding ring?”

“I mean that I got married and this is the ring Jeremy gave me,” she said. 

“You married the _werewolf?_ ” Daniel asked, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

”If you want to think of him that way,” she said testily. She finally built up the nerve to look up at her father and mother. To his credit, Matthew held a mostly neutral expression, but Moira was speechless with shock. “I mean. It’s not like it’s untrue, but he has a name.”

“You married Jeremy,” Abby said, as though she was checking to make sure that she had heard Julia correctly.

“Who is a werewolf,” Daniel added. 

“Could you stop that?” Julia snapped, turning her head so she could properly glare at him.

“Stop what? Telling the truth? You’re twenty.” 

“Yeah? And when do you plan on putting a ring on Heather’s finger, since you’ve only been dating forever?” 

The shift of attention was almost palpable in the air, Julia felt eyes leave her and they all focused on Daniel. He was for once, speechless, and there was a telltale blush in his cheeks that all the Frobishers shared. There was too much dead time gone for there to be a timely retort, which meant only one thing: Julia had unknowingly struck a nerve. “Oh Merlin’s buttons, Daniel Frobisher,” Moira finally spoke up, leaning back in her chair with a hand to her forehead, the epitome of a bewildered, put upon parent.

“I think you’re supposed to ask her on her birthday, not yours,” Michael put in helpfully.

”Shut up, I thought we were talking about Julia,” Daniel returned.

“We were,” Moira conceded, not moving a bit. “But don’t think we’re not discussing this later. Julia?”

“What?” she demanded in return. She felt the blood rushing to her face again, and it was especially dangerous at this point. The nausea had lingered, but it didn’t increase. “What’s there to talk about? We’re both adults and we wanted to be married.”

“Well, but isn’t that – “ Abby interrupted herself, looking around the table, looking for a way she could put this. “… not legal?” 

“There are loopholes. We exploited them. We wanted to get married.” On two different days. But nobody needed to know that.

“Yes, you said that,” Moira replied patiently, and the more she spoke, the more that Julia felt like a child again, who’d done something wrong and would shortly be on time out for her crime. “I just don’t know where your sense has gone, Julia. You were always such a nice, _sensible_ girl. Lots of talents, quite lovely when you had a mind to speak up – “

“Wait, stop,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “What is this actually about? Is it because we kind of eloped and didn’t really invite anyone?” _Would any of you have come?_ “I might’ve changed a little? Is it because he’s a werewolf? Can we just stop beating around the bush and get it all out of the way?” She knew she was edging on hysterical, but after the day she’d had and the possibilities of everything suddenly laid in front of her, she felt that she had earned hysteria.

It was the same uncomfortable feeling they’d had in the air when she’d announced the engagement, the feeling of the undeniably awkward elephant in the room. No one wanted to appear unthinking, or in possession of what might be considered archaic prejudices, but the fact was they were there. It was just that nobody wanted to actually be the one to say it. “It’s not necessarily that, per se,” Matthew started slowly, exchanging glances with his wife.

_Except it is._ “What is it?”

“It’s all the trouble that it’s going to bring you besides,” Moira answered. “Being young and married and in the middle of a war like this – without adding the kind of trouble one of you being a werewolf is going to bring.”

If he even survived all of this. He had to, _they_ had to. “I imagine we’ll take the problems as they come, just like we’ve taken everything else, one at a time,” she said, calmly.

“Well, and if it doesn’t, then it’ll just be easy enough to undo, I’m sure,” Abby said in what Julia was sure she considered a helpful tone, but she could only hear ‘condescending’ and it made her angry.

She opened her mouth to speak but found no need to do so, Michael had silenced Abby with little more than a look. She was still trying to decide what to make of that when Moira spoke again. “We are just trying to keep you from setting yourself up for disappointment like your m – “ Even as Moira stopped herself, it was obvious to everyone how that sentence was meant to end. Like your mother.

If someone had reached out and slapped her, Julia could not have been more shocked. There wasn’t anything left to say. “I’m going,” she said quietly, and swallowed the ball of emotion that had tied itself in her throat. No one stopped her as she pushed her chair back, stood, and left the dining room. She didn’t slow or even stop to pick up her bag on the way out, just took it and walked as fast and as far as she could, before she Apparated back to her shoebox flat, fairly hollow and hurt.

~*~

In September of 1981, when the chill of autumn was starting to set in, Fenrir Greyback realised that the war was almost over. He had complete control of all the werewolves except those at Hati's pack, who would soon be under his control. Of course Hati had wands, but as always Fenrir had a plan to deal with that. He had to focus on his victory -- his _inevitable_ victory -- the victory that he couldn't fail to secure. Wesley knew his orders, so there was no reason to call him to a meeting. Fenrir waited in the upstairs room for Conor and Remus to arrive, trying to untangle the possibilities of the various plans as he blankly considered the wall.

Remus was by nature a reflective person, but he hadn't allowed himself much time to do so lately. If he did it, it was a mess of guilt and anger. But mostly guilt. At home they didn't trust him -- except for James and Lily -- and the only person in the pack house who didn't trust him was buried in a shallow grave out back. So he tried not to think about it.

At the appointed time, he ascended the staircase and went to the room where Fenrir normally waited for meetings with his inner circle. He pushed the door open and immediately assumed his deferential demeanor. "Good evening," he said, more of a greeting than he usually made.

"Remus." Fenrir couldn't help but be pleased to see him, but remained reflective and sober. "Have you seen Conor today? I haven't, and that makes me wonder."

"I haven't," he admitted. "But that doesn't necessarily mean much." He hadn't seen Briony either, although heaven only knew what could come back to haunt him if he said that out loud.

"Can't trust a bastard, Remus. They'll only tell the truth when life's on the line, and even then you can't be sure. Ah, Conor," Fenrir went on seamlessly as the older werewolf entered. "We were wondering where you were."

"I wasn't off planning the end of the unified pack, if that's what you thought." Conor closed the door. "I was talking to Briony and Skylar. They had some suggestions, some concerns. As usual, rumours are spreading."

"Rumours. You two are obsessed with rumours." Fenrir didn't look at either of them. "Let's hear it, if you're so concerned. What sort of rumours?"

"More of the same old," he said. Speaking to Fenrir made Remus nervous, sometimes he felt as though all he would need to do is just pull that connection they had as Father and reluctant son, and then he would see everything in his head. "Making war on Hati... possibilities of her attacking us.”

The wolf reached out to its son and Fenrir felt Remus's tension, but it could only be expected of someone who listened to and trusted rumour. "We won't have to worry about Hati soon enough," he said with a smirk. "That's part of why I called you both here. We're going to rid Hati of her wands."

Conor had a strong feeling that this was just as bad as it sounded, especially with Wesley's absence, but there was an equal possibility that Fenrir was just being hopeful. "We are? How are we doing that?"

Remus didn't like this either, mostly because he had a feeling that this was going to involve his wand in some way. He calmly regarded Fenrir in return, feeling the wolves touch as his went still. "Yes, how?"

Fenrir picked at his fingernails. "We only have two wands in the whole of this pack, and I'm sending you both to find Alecto. You're bright, Remus, I know you can figure out a way. Yaxley's useless, we need someone who'll fight for us. The Dark Lord promised us protection and we damned well better get it."

Conor couldn't help but feel a bit puzzled at this announcement, though he did well at hiding it. "We have two wands?" he asked. "And are you saying we're going to declare war before they do?"

Fenrir's breath caught in his throat and then he glared at Conor. "You think they're going to declare war on _me?_ "

Jeremy was the second wand he was counting, Remus knew it had to be. Unless Fenrir knew something that the rest of them didn't, in which case they were severely screwed. "She'd be foolish to do so, of course," Remus added hurriedly before this got out of their hands, "but strategically speaking, not out of the realm of possibility. It could be to her advantage, if she were to strike before we were ready."

"So we should prepare," Fenrir said slowly. "We need wands. We need to rid of her of her wands and get our own. Wesley is already on his way to Hati's pack with a wand and his knives to strike them at midnight, and kill as many wizards as he can."

Remus was stuck somewhere between the incongruous mental picture of Wesley wielding a wand (what was he going to do, poke someone’s eye out with it?) and the image of the plan just disappearing in smoke. There were five at Hati's pack with wands, and many wolves. But he knew just as well as Conor what could happen when Wesley went creeping in the dead of night. "I think preparing would be. After that, yes."

"Fenrir!" Conor walked up to Fenrir where he sat and grabbed the arms of the chair, staring him down like he might have when Fenrir was a boy. "What if he's unsuccessful? Have you thought of that? What if you send Wesley on that fool's errand and the wizards kill him on sight? Hati is smarter than you think, you may have lost us our greatest weapon! We need wands and we need them as soon as we can get them, we might have Hati _march on us_ at this rate."

" _Stand back,_ " Fenrir growled, staring down Conor just as harshly. "Don't question me. Remus? Get the Curenton unnamed and find Alecto. I have her address, you'll find her and tell her we need her and her friends as soon as they can come to us. I trust you to handle this and keep the bastard in line."

No one in the Order knew where the Carrows were, not with all their connections, wit, and considerable magical power, Remus somehow doubted that he and Jeremy would be able to unearth Alecto Carrow or even her brother if neither of them wanted to be found. Not that they wanted to Still, what choice was there? "We'll. We'll look," he said, edging towards the door.

"Wait." Fenrir pushed past Conor, opened a drawer and held out a piece of parchment to Remus. "She wrote down all the information there. You have to find her, she'll be willing to back up Wesley at the very least." She had to care. She had to help. They had no chance without her, though he would never admit this.

"Why would you just send Wesley out there without talking to any one of us? Why didn't you consider the possibility of failure?" Conor demanded.

"Because this is my pack and I make the decisions here, and I do not fail, I can't afford to fail," Fenrir snapped back at Conor. "Now leave me, bastard -- Remus, stay for now."

Remus took the parchment and looked at it fleetingly, but put it back down when he was left alone with Fenrir. He didn't dare look at Conor before he left, lest anything be given away. He tried not to look for ways out of this, not yet. "Yes?" he said.

Fenrir stressed their tie, and touched Remus's shoulder at the same time, feeling so intensely that sensation of _pack._ "I need you to step up as my heir, now. This is the last of our wars. I need your wand. I need your intelligence. Are you prepared for this?"

He had no idea how ready Remus was, or for what. "I am prepared," he said, forcing the wolf to listen to _him,_ and give away nothing.

Fenrir put on a grim smile at that and opened the door for his son. "I knew I could trust you," he said. "Go. Do me proud."

He mirrored the smile and tucked the parchment in his pocket, leaving the room with some speed but not quite what would be considered a hurry. He didn't 'hurry' until he reached the foot of the stairs when he began looking for Jeremy.

Jeremy finished talking to the unnameds who he was moving out tonight, and Gemma, and left to tell Sky about how things were progressing, only to see the blur of Remus practically running past the end of the corridor he was in. Against his better judgement, he followed and hissed, "Remus!"

Remus slid to a stop and backtracked at the sound of his name. "Jeremy," he said. "There's -- there's... we need to go, and we need to talk," he added, keeping his voice low.

Jeremy took this seriously, having no other option, and drew his wand. "Outside, behind the house, Apparate, now." He Disapparated an instant later, pacing the second his feet touched the grass outside of the house.

He followed almost immediately, putting a hand on the wand in his pocket. He kept his footing and looked at Jeremy. "We have a kink," he said quietly. "Fenrir expects us to go find Alecto and bring her back here to help us with war on Hati. And, it is -- he's sent Wesley there to kill as many of the wizards as he can."

Jeremy decided to focus on only one of those at once, because both of them could make his head explode. "He sent Wesley there or he's _sending_ Wesley there? Are we talking about a situation that's already _happened?_ Could someone already be dead?"

"'Wesley is already on his way,'" Remus quoted Fenrir's words. "But he sent him... I saw him yesterday. It _had_ to be today."

"It should take him some time to get there. What was the other thing?" This couldn't be happening. Calm down, the wolf was saying, and he listened, slowing his breaths. "You're supposed to go get Alecto Carrow."

" _I_ am supposed to take _you_ and _we_ are supposed to get Alecto Carrow," he said.

Jeremy was either going to laugh or cry at this situation and at this point, he could only break down and laugh. "You're not serious," he said. "He's sending the two of us to go get her. He realises that'll be nigh impossible, right?"

He recognised the maniacal laughter, and his mouth twitched in return. "Then you're going to love the next part," he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out the parchment. "I have her address. Or what is supposed to be her address. I assume it's correct. I would not doubt that she's out on the Dark Lord's business, though."

All right, now he just couldn't help but laugh, sniggering into his hand. "We... we've been given Alecto Carrow's address." He tried to regain his composure, exhaling. "Okay. Well. We have a few things to do. We have to contact Hati's pack without going there ourselves, in case Wesley is there -- he can't see us -- which means we have to go to the Den. And we have to go find Alecto Carrow."

"And the Lindbergh baby as well, probably," he muttered in return. This was just surreal. "Yeah. Okay. Let's do it."

Jeremy eyed the address. "All right. Is it worth splitting up?" he asked Remus flat-out. "Is it worth the risk that if you find Alecto without me, that she'll inform him? Or should we first send a messenger to Hati?"

Remus hesitated. "I don't want to take chances with Alecto, not when we don't have to. We need to get word to Hati's pack, fast."

Then their path was set. "All right," he said. "I don't trust myself to Side-Along, can you follow?"

He nodded. "I can."

Jeremy Apparated outside of the Den, ascending the steps quickly and speaking to Remus as soon as he appeared. "Welcome to the Den," he called down.

"Thank you," he said, taking in the house for a couple of seconds before following him up the stairs.

Jeremy opened the door and called as loudly as he could, "JULIA, ARE YOU HERE?" He grabbed a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ that was laying on a nearby table and glanced at Remus. "See your pack's new home," he said wryly. "I'm almost worried some of the unnameds will see you and run."

Remus didn't answer, merely gave a dry smile in return, and jumped when there was an answer from the front room. 

"Jeremy?" Julia called back, a little confused, but not moving from her place outstretched on the couch.

"She's here," Jeremy said to Remus, and hurried into the front room. "Hey. I need your help. Quickly. ... Are you all right?" Wow, he couldn't afford to be distracted by her now, but it was already hitting him. _No._

For the first time in years, Julia wasn't sure that she actually wanted to see Jeremy. She could handle her nerves or his nerves, but both at once may prove to be too much."I'm... fine. What do you need?" she asked, sitting up and running her fingers through her hair.

"I need you to go to Hati." He had never thought about what would happen if Julia wasn't an option. Could he send his father? One of the unnameds? "Are you sure you're okay for this?" He sat next to her, feeling the pressure starting to mount and the wolf's reaction. His wife looked ill, his plan was falling apart, and he still had six werewolves to move to the Den.

He was worried, and that never failed to worry her. "Jeremy, I'm fine." An easy lie. She reached up to touch his face, and dropped her hand after a moment. "I'll go. What's going on?" She glanced at Remus, who was hanging back in the doorway to the sitting room, and did a double take.

Jeremy followed her gaze. "Julia, you might remember Remus Lupin from school. He's my partner in crime these days. Remus, this is Julia -- formerly Frobisher, now Curenton. My wife."

"Certainly ate enough meals at the Gryffindor table," she said, having the face placed for her. "Are you one of the unnameds in the pack?"

"Ah. No," Remus said simply. "It's a great deal more complicated than we really have time for at the minute."

Julia gave him a skeptical look, and looked back at Jeremy. "So? What _is_ going on?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Fenrir sent his assassin to Hati's pack to kill some people and we need to know if something happened and warn them if he hasn't made a move yet. Neither Remus nor I can go -- if he's there, he'll recognise us." He glanced at Remus, then said to Julia, "He's being humble. He's Fenrir's named first, his heir."

Julia blinked at Jeremy, and then looked at Remus before laughing out loud. It was the exact laughter that Jeremy had given behind the pack house. "I can see why you would be good for each other," Remus said dryly.

Jeremy grinned, and quickly kissed Julia's cheek before standing. "I have a message to write. Are you absolutely sure? You look a bit..." He gestured. "White."

She would feel a lot better if she could get an appointment with a Healer before sometime next week. "I'm okay," she said with a little bit of a sigh. "Just write the message and I'll take it."

"Thanks. Thank you so much, Remus, be ready to go," Jeremy added as he rushed out of the room to find some parchment and ink.

Julia picked her trainers up from where she'd pushed them off on the floor when she'd laid down, and untied one. "So," she said, pulling it on her foot. "I guess you weren't bitten after you left school, then."

"No, I wasn't," he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. It was a somewhat sore subject, if she was thinking what he thought she was thinking – what he knew Jeremy thought – and he usually downplayed it considerably. "I was quite young, really."

She nodded, focusing on tying her shoe and then putting the other one on. If he was bitten while young, that meant a werewolf had attended Hogwarts. One werewolf had successfully attended Hogwarts in secret. She had no words, and tried to push it out of her mind. Their silence was long and awkward until Jeremy returned.

Jeremy eyed the two in their tense silence and handed Julia the folded piece of parchment. "Remus, can you give us a minute? I swear it won't be long." He couldn't just leave her. He wished he could, but he couldn't.

"Of course," Remus nodded, and gratefully retreated back to the entryway and stepped outside the front door.

Julia wordlessly tucked the parchment in her jeans pocket and looked up at him. "Yeah," she finally said, clearing her throat.

Just like that Jeremy felt his resolve crumble, and he leaned against her shoulder. "I think I might've underestimated him, I think I fucked it up," he said. "We might -- it might still -- I don't know. I don't know." It was an agonising thing to admit. "I love you. Thank you. I'm sorry and I hope I don't die."

Things were no longer going well, or at least not as planned. She exhaled and touched his back, tense with anxiety. If things had been going well... she closed her eyes, pushing nausea back. "I hope you don't too." _Please._ "I _really_ hope -- god, Jeremy."

"I'll come back." He touched her face, ignoring the urgent pushes that the wolf gave him. _Go. Go. They need you._ No, _she_ needed him. "Failure isn't an option. I'll come back."

She almost told him, but, in the end, knew it was going to add to his worry and the weight pushing down on him. So she nodded. "We need to go," she said, kissing him.

He held onto the kiss but pulled away with a nod and stood. "Let's go. I'll be back with a new group of people. Good luck," he added, before backing out of the room.

"Good luck," she echoed, pulling her jumper on. Her nausea had not abated, but she _could_ go, and she _would_ go, even with the knowledge that the wind had changed somewhat and now they were improvising.

Remus glanced up when the front door opened and Jeremy exited. "Ready?" he asked mildly, watching him.

"Ready," Jeremy said with a firm nod, pushing Julia out of his mind. "I suppose we have no choice. We weren't lying after all, Alecto _is_ coming back, if we can find her."

"Funny how those things work out," Remus said, pulling the parchment Fenrir had given him out of his pocket. He glanced at it again, pleased to at least see he wouldn't have to be doing any complicated Apparation Arithmancy off the top of his head. "Apparation coordinates," he added, showing Jeremy.

"Oh, good, I think if I had to deal with Carrow and do Apparation Arithmancy in one day I might have brains leaking out of my ears. Remember, privileged named, lowly unnamed," Jeremy reminded Remus, pointing between them respectively. "Ready?"

"I think I have it, thank you," Remus replied. He honestly hoped that they were going to knock on the door and no one would answer, but he didn't suppose their luck ran that way anymore. "Let's go then."

Jeremy paused. "Can I see the numbers again?" Damn if he wasn't getting rusty. Remus showed him. "Okay. I'm good. Let's go." He Disapparated.

He followed behind, reappearing beside Jeremy at what he could only presume was the right location - or as close as they could get, she wasn't taking chances. He'd felt an Apparation ward push him back slightly from where he wanted to go. "We'll have to watch ourselves even closer again, if she comes back," he realized, although with any luck there wouldn't be a pack to be watched in for much longer, either way.

"Oh, Remus, I think you misheard Fenrir's orders," Jeremy said casually. "He said that he'd have us contact her on the day we were going to go. She's not _staying_ with us. He doesn't want her back."

There was a very long moment when Remus didn't say anything at all. "Always a possibility," he said, of course understanding his meaning.

"And Alecto's likely to say that she'll be there as soon as we inform her of the war," Jeremy went on, eyeing the flats they stood across from. "I can't believe she lives in a _flat._ It looks so normal. I expected a castle of doom."

"Ah yes, but there are many problems with castles of doom. They're drafty, far too spacious for one person to be considered practical, and cleaning it is a nightmare," Remus deadpanned, looking at the parchment again and motioned to Jeremy towards where he figured it would be. "Not to mention it's only worth the investment if it's storming."

"Flat six, that'd be on the second floor, I guess we should just go in," Jeremy said with a shrug, heading towards the building.

It was that simple. They walked up to the building, and they walked in. It was probably locked at night, Remus reasoned, but he still didn't like it. There was a little trouble finding the stairs, but without more trouble than that, they stood in front of flat six. For that kind of trouble, Remus expected a cadre of Death Eaters waiting for them on the other side of the door. He glanced sideways at Jeremy. _Privileged named. Right._ He knocked on the door.

Jeremy expected to wait a long time for absolutely nothing, and leaned against the wall more casually than he might have if the door hadn't opened within minutes of the knock. "Who is it?" Alecto Carrow's unmistakable sing-song asked from behind the door.

"It's Remus Lupin. I've come from Fenrir with a message... more of a request," Remus started, feeling slightly ridiculous. He'd knocked on a Death Eater's door when most people with his IQ would be running away as fast as they could. "Please open the door."

Alecto opened the door without hesitation and looked at the boy. "Look at you, all grown up," she said. "A regular prince. Remarkable." She glanced aside and found a not entirely welcome surprise standing there. "Why is Curenton here with you, Remus?"

Remus, too, glanced at Jeremy, but not for too long. "He's fine. A wand in case we ran into trouble," he said dismissively. "But, speaking of... wands are our trouble."

"Inside," Alecto ordered. "But don't touch anything, either of you. Especially you," she added to Curenton, and let them inside of her posh little flat.

Remus tilted his head to Jeremy to follow, and entered Alecto Carrow's flat. "Nice," he commented dryly.

"I thought so." Alecto closed the door and looked at them. "This should be quick, shouldn't it? I have a dinner date with my brother and some dementors. Now talk to me, Remus, what's going on? Isn't Yaxley doing his share? What do you need my wands for?"

“Yaxley comes when he has orders to deliver," Remus said. "Never otherwise. We need wands because sooner or later we are going to attack Hati -- or she's going to attack us, it's hard to say -- but she has wands. Not overly many, but considering that it's just the two of us for the pack, it would even our odds considerably to have you and whoever you could bring there." He still couldn't believe how easily it all came now.

"That little prick. I'll cut him out of this deal, it'll be me and Amycus and I'll see if I can get anyone else." Alecto missed Royce Wilkes; bastard that he was, he didn't deserve to die that kind of death. "We don't need that many. Amycus and I are good for a fight. You two know what you're doing with your wands then, been practising for this Hati woman, whoever she is?" She paused. "Oh, right. The female pack leader with the fortress. Well, this should be fun. Does he want me now?"

"No," he answered. "No, we're... to be busy with preparations, and we'll contact you just beforehand and you can come."

"He really carried this whole idea through?" Alecto eyed the boy. "And you're really devoted to it?"

Remus held her gaze, feeling a lot calmer than he probably should have been. "I can understand why you would have your doubts about me, but with all due respect, you've been gone for many months. Fenrir has been carrying it, he will carry it all the way through, and I mean to be there."

Jeremy cleared his throat. "All due respect, Miss Carrow, but Remus pretty much took over your role at the pack and did it really well. I mean, he helped find out Laurel was threatening Fenrir and keeps everyone in line. He's. He's really become the heir of the pack, Miss Carrow."

Alecto looked at Curenton, then looked to Remus and said, "You fixed him. Good job. I'll get some people together and you'll contact me?"

"We will," he said coolly. "Good day to you, then."

"I think you've forgotten where you are and who you're with," Alecto said sharply, all pretense of sing-songing and joking gone. "Werewolves, you get out of my flat, I have better things to do than take care of your weak little lot."

"Shit," Jeremy swore under his breath, and reached for his wand, but Alecto disarmed him.

She held out his wand to Remus. "Get out of here and don't let him get his wand back. I don't trust him."

"Fenrir isn't going to like hearing that, that's all! He doesn't need you for anything more than protection from a hypocrite like Hati!" Jeremy backed towards the door and opened it, quickly closing it before she shot a hex at him and swore.

"Yes, we fixed him all right," Remus said dryly, pocketing Jeremy's wand. "Good bye," he said again, before leaving the flat as she requested, closing the door behind him.

Jeremy sent Remus a grin and put his finger to his lips as he started to descend the stairs, only speaking when they got out the door of the building. "We just played Alecto Carrow like a fiddle."

"Closer to an entire string quartet," he answered, handing Jeremy his wand back.

Jeremy nearly stuck his wand in his belt before he realised. "Enough gloating, we have to see if Julia's back from Hati's yet."

He nodded. "All right." He Disapparated from the spot, back to the Den.

~*~

Meanwhile, Julia had Apparated to Hati's pack, as usual landing in the woods just beyond the treeline. Unlike last time, however, she unceremoniously dropped to her knees and vomited into a low shrub at the base of a tree. "Ew," she murmured, spraying some water in her mouth with an _aguamenti_ and swishing. She hoped that wouldn't happen again when she returned to the Den. She spat, moved to one side of the tree, and leaned back against it and let her eyes close for one second. A few more seconds, and then she'd pull herself up and go to the house.

"Rough trip?"

Julia's eyes flew open and she looked up, finding Jane staring down at her curiously. "Something like that," she said, and took Jane's outstretched hand for the help up. Her knes were slightly shaky, but not so bad. She had work to do. "I need to see Hati, soon as she'll see me."

Jane raised an eyebrow. "All right," she said warily. "Come on, I'll take you in. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah. Just a rough trip, like you said," she replied, brushing her hair back. 

"Never threw up after a rough trip," she answered, but dropped it a second later as she began to lead Julia back to the house.

"Jane!" The door flew open as they reached the porch and David stuck his head out of it. "Get in here! Dad and Mam are dueling, we finally convinced them!"

"Shakespeare the way it's meant to be done!" Adam yelled after him,

" _Ooh._ " Interest undeniably piqued, Jane simply pulled Julia into the house behind her. Julia, despite the urgency put into the message by Jeremy, wasn't sure that she wanted to get in the middle of that, just from how it sounded from the door.

David ducked as he entered the room as he heard his mother send an Electrifying Hex at his dad, which ricocheted off his Shield Charm and hit the wall right where David's head had been. "Julia's here!" he shouted to the assembly. "But keep going!"

"Don't worry, it'll be seconds. Minute, tops," Adam told Julia, and watched as his mother managed to block the Stinging Hex. "Ah. Well, maybe make that minutes," he amended.

Oh, sod it. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she started, feeling slightly ridiculous yelling over the duel going on in their front room, but it was the only way she would be heard. "But I've got a message from Jeremy, and... it's terribly urgent."

Hati lowered her wand, then blocked the last hex and turned to the girl. "Let me see it then," she said, then added to her husband. "Don't worry, Tom, it's not over yet."

"I was just getting warmed up," he joked.

The colour had left Julia's face again, but she pulled the parchment out of her pocket and handed it to Hati. "I'm going to sit," she announced needlessly before she did so, it seemed better manners to just sit before being invited to do so than to fall over because her knees felt like jelly.

Edward immediately took his spot beside Hati again as she unfolded the note. "Longer than before," she announced to everyone, then her eyes widened and she fell silent until she knew how to process what she'd read. "Someone will be here to try to kill the wands here," she said, and handed the note to Edward. "Go on."

Edward cleared his throat and read aloud, "Wesley of the Greyback pack is likely poised outside your borders waiting for night to fall. I hope this gets to you before he arrives so you don't suffer the fate of Conor's pack. If he gets in, if you capture him, you can't let him know that any of you expected him to be there. You can't reveal us for what we are. And if he discovers us -- "

Hati shattered the window with a hex and shouted " _Petrificus Totalus!_ " A body landed with a hard, audible thump outside. "Adam! Go, now, I think we found our spy."

Jane had already started dashing out the door before Adam caught the neck of her shirt. She glared up at him and they had the briefest battle of wills. "Go find Ben," he told her. "You can take a shot later if you're good." 

"I wasn't -- _ngh,_ " she gave a frustrated noise before she ran to and then up the staircase, calling for Ben, and Adam went in the opposite direction, back out the front door and to see what his mother had managed to petrify.

"That was fucking _brilliant,_ " David exclaimed, nudging his mother's arm. "You just blew him away, Mam, I haven't seen you do that since the time Ben -- "

Hati raised her hand to silence her son. "David, I need you to only talk when you have something totally necessary to say or if you're questioned specifically. Everyone, quiet," she said urgently to the gathered pack, and turned to see Ben. "Oh, thank God. Ben." She waved him over.

Ben stopped briefly at the doorway and assessed the room, his eyes finally landing on the window. "You didn't throw someone out of the window, did you?" he asked, and heard Adam outside, advancing to look outside.

"No, I just stopped an intruder," Hati said idly, and held Curenton's note out to Ben. "Read. Keep reading after the mad part, it gets better."

"Death Eaters," Edward said under his breath, touching wolves with Hati just for affirmation that they had this handled. "Here he comes."

Hati stepped forward and touched Julia's shoulder. "Julia, you might want to step out," she said softly. "This isn't something Jeremy would want you to see, pregnancy or no."

Julia looked up at Hati like she'd been caught at some wrongdoing. Maybe she really did know things. "I'll... step out," she agreed, a little dumbfounded, but she stood and left the room.

Ben watched her go, wondering. He supposed Hati would know, but it was really not at the top of the list of things to worry about right now. "So we have a guest," he said, he could hear Adam clamoring up the stairs now, dragging a person. Trouble had finally arrived at their door.

Hati gave a short nod and walked past Ben towards where Adam deposited the intruder on the ground. She nudged him with her foot and the wolf came to the front of his eyes, but she stared him down. "You're on my territory," she said. "I don't know who you are, but you're on my territory." She abruptly removed the _totalus_ and Leg-Locked him, pinning his arms to his sides with another easy charm, readying him to speak. "I'm listening whenever you want to confess."

Wesley squirmed until he gave up and shouted at her, "He was right, you're a witch, you're no pack leader at all!"

Ben came forward and glanced down at him. So this was Wesley, Fenrir's infamous assassin and weapon. "Regardless, you're in her territory, not to mention bound and at a terrible disadvantage," he said coolly, matching him wolf with wolf. "So it could possibly be in your favour to cooperate instead of being difficult."

"Release me. You're in no position to make war with us. If you leave a single mark on me you'll regret it for the rest of your life," Wesley snarled, and spat at Ben's feet. "Release me if you know what's good for you!"

“Oh yes, you _must_ be Wesley.” The distaste on Ben's face was clear. "Given that you are an infamous sneak and murderer and in our home, I don't think we'll be doing that," he said, and looked at Adam. "Did you search him?"

"Of course," Adam replied, digging in his pockets. He kicked Wesley's feet out of the way to Ben, and he wielded a wand that had been in Wesley’s pocket, as well as two knives. "Ready to do his business, no doubt."

Hati knelt beside Fenrir's disturbed little boy and patted his face. "We're smarter than you think," she informed him. "We know your tricks, after observing them for the past few years. And we -- " She considered Curenton's plans, his words, and went on. "We are more than ready to face _you_ on _our_ own terms."

Ben couldn't help but smile grimly. "Does your Father really think he could take us down with his lies and whatever power they bring him? _We_ challenge _him._ "

"You're ours! You're not a real pack, you're run by -- women and wizards and _unnameds,_ father-killers!" He spat again in Ben's direction. "You'd do best to give in now, while we'll give you mercy. Once the Death Eaters are by our side, you'll regret ever raising a wand against us."

Ben leaned over and backhanded Wesley across the mouth, remaining on his level. "If I did it in my pack, what makes you think that it would be so difficult to do in yours?" he demanded harshly. "Let Fenrir bring his power to bear. We are _ready._ "

Wesley stared at Ben Skoll, the wolf nearly gaining control, his disdain overwhelming him even as he contemplated his possible death. "Are you going to kill me now?" he asked, straightforward, staring into Ben Skoll's eyes. _Because if you don't, I'll kill you the next chance I get._

Hati cleared her throat. "Step back," she demanded to the rest of them, and pressed her wand to Wesley's Adam's apple. "You're going to carry our message to Fenrir," she said calmly. "You're going to tell him that we _are_ ready, Death Eaters or no, whatever he wants to bring, we are _ready_ for him." She slashed open the side of his face with a hex, wounding him deep, and then a second across the other side of his face, but he barely reacted to the pain -- the wolf fed on it, and he simply looked infuriated. Homicidal. Ready to kill her. Exactly what she wanted.

She stood. "We have drawn first blood," she said. "Now we _escort_ him from our territory and prepare for the possibility that the _snake_ might try to slither back into our house. Jane, take him as far as you please and release him, and all wands will patrol. First blood was drawn tonight and it _wasn't_ from ours. Go," she ordered Jane, and stared down at Wesley. "We're not afraid of you. Bring your worst."

Jane would just as soon leave him in the woods for dead, but she stepped forward and Levitated Wesley without a word besides the incantation. She maneuvered him out the door with as much care as she could manage to give, which wasn't to say much. His head barely cleared the lintel.

Hati walked after them to the door, watching until they were a safe distance away before returning to her pack. "I like to think that we might have handled that without warning, but I doubt it," she said. "It would have been a _very_ different scene. Where is Julia?"

"Here," a faint voice called from the short hallway to the back part of the house. She sat on the floor and leaned her head against the doorjamb. She hadn't made it any further than that and while she mightn't have seen the exchange, she'd heard it all. _That_ was Wesley. That was one of her nightmares that didn’t have a face to disturb her sleep, and it had been less than twenty feet away.

Hati gestured her back. "Come back. Edward, something to write with, we're sending Curenton a message back. Will he still be there?" she asked Julia, now that Edward was off in a hurry.

She pushed herself up. "He was... yes. I'll see him tonight, if not when I get back right away," she answered.

"Good." Hati looked to Tom, _reparo'_ d the window, and said to Julia, "You're free to go whenever you like. If you'd like some help getting home, my sons can help."

She felt ridiculous for blushing -- again, always and forever -- but she had the feeling if Hati could see right through her, it probably wouldn't be long before Brighid would, or Owen, even Jeremy. "I'll just wait for the note. I'm sure I can manage otherwise, thank you," she said.

Edward set the writing supplies down on the table and sat down beside them to watch what Hati would write. Hati nodded to Julia and scribbled out a quick note regarding exactly what had happened, and folded it in half. _Edward._ When he took it to her, she sighed and said, "Tell him what you heard, if he has any questions. I trust you to give an honest account. Also... best of luck to you, Julia, as this may be the last time I see you. Be careful."

She tucked the note back in her pocket. "You too," she said, clearing her throat. "All of you," she added, although she hoped it worked out that most of the people in the room would still be breathing after what was to come. She left the room, and the house, bracing herself to Apparate as soon as she could.

Her feet touched the grass in front of the Den again, and she stood still for a moment, until she was sure that she wasn't going to be ill again. She scaled the stairs and entered the house. "Jeremy? Are you here?"

Jeremy jerked awake from the half-doze he'd fallen into and looked over at Remus after a moment, only then asking aloud, "Was that my wife, or did I dream that?"

Remus looked up at him over the edge of the newspaper that he'd been devouring, and glanced at the doorway. "I think that it was your wife," he confirmed calmly.

She heard the voices responding, and she looked into the front room. "There you are," she said, with a bit more relief than she meant to give away, and collapsed onto the couch before she did anything else. "I -- I have a return note..." she added, reaching into her pocket.

"All right, let's see it, no one died, right?" How could he be so stupid as to doze right on the couch like it was any day? There was a war on. Guilt washed over him and he forced himself to shake it off, touching Julia's arm and just being patient.

She laughed, although there wasn't really anything funny about it. It was just one of the cry-or-laugh days, she supposed, although she felt dangerously close to the former. "Not this time," she said, pulling the parchment out, and handed it off to Jeremy. Remus sat up, paying attention as well.

"'Thank you for the warning,'" he read aloud softly. "'We caught Wesley lurking outside our house and disarmed him. I drew first blood myself, and Ben and I both declared war in so many words. Your plan is working to perfection, and we will be prepared.'" He lowered the note and sank into the couch with an unmistakable sound of relief.

"It was. Fast," Julia offered, now reclined back into the opposite corner of the couch. 

Remus was silent for a long moment. "Well. It looks as though things still run in our favour, so far," he said.

"We have to get back to the pack with news before we can pat ourselves on the back too much." Jeremy opened his eyes and pushed himself up and out of the inviting warmth of the couch. "Julia, I'll be back. And we'll talk at my next trip, when you're feeling better."

Remus folded the newspaper and set it back on the chair. "Goodbye," he tactfully told Julia and sidled out of the room, giving them another moment.

Julia, however, was very nearly beside herself, overwhelmed at the speed of which things were happening and how much she just wanted him _there._ She would have him forever, eventually. But she wanted now. She swallowed and gave herself another few seconds before she could speak. "Hurry it back, then."

Jeremy kissed her briefly. "I'll see you. Soon I'll be back. Soon this'll be over. October," he added, standing. "Should be October."

October was not very far off. She nodded. "I love you. Be careful, _please,_ " she added hurriedly.

"I will. Don't worry," he called to her as he went to meet Remus at the door.

Remus looked up at Jeremy's entrance. "Ready?" he asked. He had to admire the kind of resolve it took to walk away from her all the time, and choose this until it was over.

For his part, Jeremy was tired, and for the first time he wondered if he could make it through. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said before Disapparating.

Ready as he'll ever be. "Nicely put," Remus sighed and shifted back into 'privileged first' mode before following him.

~*~

As much as Remus had been avoiding it, he was coming face to face with his mortality. The Order had been one thing, a battle with the unified pack, even if he had a wand, promised to be bloody and relentless. Even if it was going to be seven wands and all of Hati's wolves against the pack and whatever Death Eaters showed up, it was still an outcome that they could only predict so far and it certainly wasn't one that they could fix. So it was crashing in on him like it never had before.

Not that there was much to it other than thinking about it. It wasn't as though he had any worldly possessions to write a will over, even an informal one. He just had his friends. Or the people who were once his friends, anyway. It was pretty clear as to what he'd made himself in their eyes - or at least Sirius and Peter's. He hadn't seen any of them since July, in Godric's Hollow. He took his chance to visit -- maybe one last time -- long before his absence would become especially notable at the pack. He Disapparated directly from his room (he still found it odd, not a single Apparation ward on the place) and reappeared in front of the cottage in Godric's Hollow.

He was waiting for some signal of disapproval or annoyance from the wolf, but it didn't come. It wasn't a good sign, for things to come either at the full moon or immediately. If it was showing some sign of being present, at least he knew and could control it, sort of -- when it went silent was when it was its most dangerous. Before he could reevaluate it or give a second thought to any of this, he let himself in the front gate and knocked on the door.

James had just put Harry down, and as he went back to the front room, he heard a knock on the door. He doubled back and asked, "Password?" He could only hope it was any of his mates, because being in hiding was getting old really fast.

"Some are living and some are dead," he replied quickly. "It's Remus," he added in a tone that sounded pleading to his ears.

James opened the door without hesitation and looked at Remus. "You look like hell," he said, lost for any other words.

The greeting caught him slightly off guard, but he managed a tight smile. "Well. Better than I thought I looked, then," he said, running a hand over his hair self-consciously.

"Sorry, no offence, but you do. Get your arse in here, Moony." James laughed and ushered him in.

If he only looked like hell, he supposed he was doing something right, then. He stepped in to the house, and tried not to feel uncomfortable. But he did. "I -- I'm sorry, not that I'm not glad to see you, but is Lily here as well?"

"No, she's on Order business, it's just me here." _And not Peter or Sirius._ He never thought he'd be happy to not have all three of his friends in the house at once. "If you want, you can wait for her."

"I think I'd like to, thank you." If the pack war did it for him, he didn't want to think he'd gone without seeing Lily – either of them, really, they both deserved a better friend than he. "Is Harry well? He must be growing at an alarming rate."

James grinned at that. "You just missed him, he's down for a nap. Come on, sit, you want a drink?"

"I would, thank you," he said with a nod.

He poured them both straight alcohol -- Remus looked like he needed it. "Things are getting bad, Remus."

"I've -- " _I've heard_ was coming out of his mouth, although he wasn't going to lie to people he never saw. It was bad enough he was away, and the things that had come between them because of it. "I've only managed to get my hands on a copy of the newspaper very recently," he said. "But I suppose their story is hardly the half of it."

"Not half of what's really going on. I don't think I could even explain everything if you stayed here all night," James said with a short laugh. "We're fighting on a lot of fronts and we're losing on a lot of fronts. Benjy's dead," he added abruptly, as it occurred to him. "Funeral was yesterday."

It jarred Remus, badly. Another of the Order was dead. "Dead," he said shortly, and swallowed. "How?"

"Reductor Curse." James set the glass in front of Remus and sat down beside him. "A strong one. They didn't have a body to bury."

"Merlin," Remus breathed. He twinged and hid it with a drink of the alcohol. _You weren't nearly so upset at the death of your unnamed sister._ Laurel, Benjy, they hardly equated, for many reasons.

"Yeah." James took a long drink and set down his glass hard. "I haven't seen you in _months,_ Remus."

He rubbed his eyes. "I know," he said quietly. "I _know,_ nobody's seen me." The tension was already beginning to mount behind his eyes in anticipation, and he pushed it down. _You're not ruining this._

James stayed leaned forward, not looking at Remus. "Well, someone's seen you. Werewolves have seen you. Your best mates -- the ones who _became Animagi_ to help you out -- we haven't seen you, have we?"

No, of course the wolf wouldn't be ruining this. Remus did a great job of doing that sort of thing alone. "No. You haven't. Please, James," he said, quite sure it wouldn't end with him just asking like that.

"I don't care what you have there. Honestly, I don't care," James admitted, grabbing his glass again to refill it. "We need you here. We _needed_ you here, and you weren't here to help us. We've been facing an entire war without you."

"I've been facing an entire war without you lot," he snapped quickly, and immediately taking a mental step back. _See, he doesn't understand and he doesn't care -- shut UP._ "You may not care, but we've been on our own front," he said, a bit closer to his normal calm.

"I'd care if I knew! That's the closest you've come to telling anyone anything in _years,_ I'm no Legilimens, I can't just read your mind!" James exclaimed, then lowered his voice when he recalled Harry was upstairs. "How was I supposed to know? I would've tried to _help!_ "

"It's not something that you could just jump into in your normal style, James," he said. "The only reason I'm -- " He stopped himself. 'I'm only on the inside of everything because I'm supposed to be Fenrir Greyback's right hand' did not do much for his credibility, nor was it even what he wanted.

"Forget it," James said, dismissing it with a wave of his glass. "No really, forget it. I know the drill. Tell us enough to keep us from throwing you out on your arse, but never enough so we actually know what's going on."

Remus closed his eyes, subtly rubbing his temple. He wasn't angry, no, this wasn't anger. It was desperation to be heard when he wasn't sure what to say, to be understood when he didn't understand. The wolf lashed out, wounded from being ignored and pushed out of the way for what the man wanted. Not for the first time, he really wished that being a werewolf was what most of the wizarding population thought it was, because their perception did not include this.

God. His head hurt. But nobody would believe the half of it. "Is that what you'd like to do then? Toss me out?"

"Sirius and Peter wouldn't have even let you in, Lily and I are the last ones that even trust you," James retorted. "I don't want to have to, but you're making it really difficult to trust you."

It was catching, the laugh-or-cry mentality, but being mentally stretched as thin as he was, Remus could understand it. In the Order, amongst his friends, he was not trusted and in the unified pack where he was trusted completely he was working to undermine the entire system. It was ironic in an awful way. "No, of course I am. I realise that," he said, nearly hysterical.

"Then do something, anything, so we can trust you again. _Anything,_ " James stressed, and grabbed Remus's shoulder to give him a slight shove. "Do something! Lily's out of her mind trying to fend off everything the Order is saying and all the looks they're exchanging, can't you do _anything?_ "

He kept a tight hold on the wolf, keeping it away from the surface when James shoved him. He forced himself to not react more than pressing his fingernails in the heels of his hands. Lily would never stop. "I'm sorry," he said, pushing himself back into a forced calm. "I know none of you will see any of it, but -- " He stopped. He could talk all day, but he'd never be able to tell James or fully convey exactly what it is they were doing. It wasn't going to change anything.

James stood and picked up his glass, distancing himself from Remus as far as he could without leaving the room. "Go," he said. "Go, unless you have something to tell me, go. This is my house, where my son and my wife live, and I -- " _I can't trust you here._

James didn't need to complete the sentence, Remus understood perfectly. He stood up and silently began to walk out, and stopped at the door. "Something's going to happen. Soon. If this is the last time, I'm sorry, and thank you. Please tell Lily that."

Without waiting for acknowledgement or answer, he left by the front door and pulled the door shut tight behind him, something ready to burst either from his chest or his head, neither sensation was exactly welcome or pleasant. He pushed open the front gate and surrendered control for once to the impatient and angry wolf just before he Disapparated.


	24. Vexed to Nightmare by a Rocking Cradle

_It's easy to look back and say, 'In those days,' because anything awful we experience now pales in comparison to the daily terror of never knowing when or how you could be killed, or one of your loved ones disappearing. They are past, and they are gone. But when we were there and then, we felt for sure that the only way things would end was in our death and ruin._ Stewart Cauldwell, _A Shadow Cast By Green Light: A Wartime Memoir_ , 1984. 

_September 1981_  
Newt Scamander rode the lift to Magical Law Enforcement with what looked to be his characteristic dignity. No one who knew him would have called him 'calm,' precisely, but as he stared ahead at his reflection in the impeccably cleaned doors to the lift, he kept a placid look on his face. The only thing that ruined the facade was the cricket bat with the end resting on the ground and his hand on the handle, as one might hold a walking stick.

The lift announced his arrival at Magical Law Enforcement as the doors slid open, revealing the activity of the department to him. He stepped out and glanced around for a moment before approaching the main desk. When the secretary didn't look up right away, or after he cleared his throat, he rapped the desktop with the cricket bat. "I'm looking for Barty Crouch," he told the stunned secretary. "Where is he?"

Her eyes glanced at the bat. "I -- er, that is... he's, um..."

"Oh forget it, I'll find him myself," Newt cut her off before she stuttered any more. The offices were down the one corridor, he knew, and so strode in that direction, taking a tight grip on the bat. "BARTY. BARTY CROUCH."

The shout managed to even ruffle MLE employees, so for a moment the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures went unanswered before Rufus Scrimgeour stepped forward. "Mr Scamander," he answered, trying to look as unflappable as he could manage, "I'll show you to Mr Crouch's office, it's just this way."

"Good, at least someone's got their head on straight in this Department," he said, striding after Scrimgeour. He noted with a little amusement that some edged out of the way, but kept his focus.

"That's an interesting walking stick, sir," Scrimgeour said as they walked, straight-faced.

"It gets the job done," Newt replied in a similar tone.

"What job is that, if I might ask?"

"It assures undivided attention."

"Emily, Mr Scamander is here to see Mr Crouch," Scrimgeour told Crouch's personal secretary as they approached her desk. "You might want to go in and inform him. Mention the cricket bat," he added, _sotto voce._ As she hurried to the door, Scrimgeour turned to Newt. "I heard about the new werewolf initiative and I should say it's an honour to be working with your Department."

"You should, but you might want to hold on to those words. Crouch seems to like to announce these sorts of things before I even hear about it," Newt said patiently.

"Scrimgeour, thank you for taking care of Mr Scamander, you're dismissed," Barty started, with the stern tone of a Department head, which quickly melted to professional courtesy as he looked to Newt Scamander. "Newt, it's a pleasure. A surprise, of course, but a pleasure."

Fine. Newt could play nice for a little while longer. "Speaking of surprises, I hear our Departments are going to be _working together_ on werewolves. From..." Newt retrieved the newspaper from the pocket of his robes. "Mary Brookstanton of _The Daily Prophet_ , no less."

Ah. Barty had been expecting this. "Would you like to speak in my office?" he asked, still cordial and quite calm.

"Oh. Would I _ever,_ " Newt said, striding into Barty's office without waiting for further invitation.

"Move my next appointment forward," Barty told the secretary before following Scamander inside and closing the door. "The Auror office has been discussing the details of the werewolf initiative with the Werewolf Registry, I was certain you would have heard."

"You would think," he said dryly. "But considering Twiddle only does things to keep himself from being fired, Umbridge is as press-happy as you, and the other members are... young, it seems as though one very important link in your chain is missing. Furthermore, whenever you announce two departments will be working together, it might be a good idea to make sure that said department is actually interested in working with you."

"... I trust we _are_ in agreement, sir, that whatever this Ministry can do to end the atrocities of this war, it _will?_ "

"Oh, we're in agreement there, make no mistake." Newt began to pace the area in front of Barty's desk, idly swinging the cricket bat at his side. "What I am concerned with is this rigamarole about werewolves you keep spouting. I'm not at all certain a new set of atrocities would not spring from your placatory desire to get the monkey screeching about catching Death Eaters off your back. The two are not synonymous. _Sir,_ " he added in a plainly mocking fashion.

Barty sent a pointed stare at the madman on the other side of the desk and said simply, "I must _respectfully_ say that I think that I know more about the Death Eaters and the dangers threatening this country than you do, and that someone must do something about the werewolf menace, and it might as well be my Department -- as overextended and overworked as we might be, we will do anything to protect this country, even doing your job for you."

"Oh yes, because suddenly treating our country's marginalized werewolf population with all the force of the MLE when we can't even find half of the ones we have on record will solve the problem," Newt replied shortly. "I don't actually hold you personally responsible for the whole debacle, it's ingrained on how we're socialised to treat them, but Merlin's sodding undershirt, man, you can't just treat them with wizarding law when you want to punish them and pretend they don't exist any other day. Stick with Death Eaters, Barty. We will help where we can, because god knows you bloody well need it, but I'm not going to let you take this blame from an isolated population of... of _renegades_ to the entirety of them. Trust me, the public does that plenty without you helping them along."

Barty began to go quite red and barely kept his tone civil. "We will take your criticisms into consideration, Mr Scamander, and I look forward to working out a more _agreeable_ arrangement with you in the future. Now, however, those of us without bleeding hearts must answer for the crimes of the werewolves, and I will deliver Fenrir Greyback and his kind, with or without your permission."

"You just keep to the law, and make sure it's the law you're keeping to." More for effect than anything else, Newt raised the cricket bat and brought it down on the edge of Barty's desk, making stacks of parchment, files, and an inkwell jump before he turned to leave.

Barty watched Scamander stalk out of his office with cricket bat in hand. He fixed his desk with shaking hands before slamming his fist against the desk in one rare show of genuine anger, before taking a deep breath and returning to his seat of authority once more.

~*~

_October 1981_  
The wizards' war was certainly heating up, Jeremy could tell that much from the newspapers he managed to read, and this might have meant that the Death Eaters would be too short-staffed for Alecto Carrow to rally the troops and take down Hati's pack. Still, the thought nagged at him, the idea that the Death Eaters would rally behind Fenrir and the unified pack would win the war without question. He had underestimated Fenrir once, and another mistake like that could cost them the whole damn war.

No. Jeremy wasn't going to underestimate Fenrir Greyback again. He couldn't afford to lose their advantage and therefore the fight. There was nothing more important than this fight.

He accepted Melinda's quick, friendly hug and asked her just a bit too quickly, "Do you know if Julia's here? I need to talk to her. Actually talk to her. Not -- never mind, do you know where she is?"

Melinda couldn't help but smile at him, even though he was obviously completely frazzled by the situation he was in. "She's right behind you," she whispered, and pointed.

"Hi," Julia spoke with a measure of humour, as much as she could manage. Most of it disappeared again when she actually looked at him, weighed down as ever.

Jeremy turned around to see her, and released a sigh that sounded more tired than he actually felt. "Hi." He glanced back at Melinda, who was already gone, then gave Julia a sheepish smile. "You look... better. Than the last time I was here."

"I feel better," she said honestly. As much as she thought she could, all things considered, at any rate. "You look. You know."

"How do I look? I haven't looked in a mirror in a long time, but that probably answers my question," he figured, and took her hands in his. "We ... should talk."

This sounded like the beginning to a conversation that she wasn't going to like. But she nodded. "All right," she said, twining her fingers with his.

He tried a smile, not sure why his nerves flared up at initiating this conversation, but Julia seemed strangely delicate, and now he was nervous. He led her upstairs and released her hand, starting to pace, unable to break that annoying habit. "They're going to bring Death Eaters."

The colour that was left in Julia's cheeks drained away. Where Jeremy couldn't seem to stop moving, she wasn't sure she could have made herself do so. "How many?" she asked, knowing they had seven wands themselves.

Jeremy pulled at his hair, hopeless, still pacing. "I don't _know._ I want to think four or five, that's how many they've had at previous fights, but it's possible it could be less because the Death Eaters are fighting their own war now, but I don't want to underestimate them. If I underestimate them, if they bring six or seven Death Eaters, we're going to be in trouble."

She leaned against the wall, not knowing what to say. If they'd done all this work and come all this way to lose... he was never this visibly distressed, and it made her anxious. "Jeremy," she said as she tried to stop him, a hand on his arm and then holding him at arm's length from both shoulders. "So there can't -- there can't be any way of knowing."

He felt like he was quivering, as though he was moving though she had him completely still. "If we'd let her come to the pack itself, found out her plans, but that way she could possibly figure us out. We had to tell her to just come when we were prepared for war," he explained, not quite looking at her. "To get the information would be to hurt ourselves, because she could figure us out. Julia, I need more wands."

Her fingers involuntarily gripped his shirt; if he was saying -- no, she _knew_ what he was saying. "I don't -- Jeremy, I don't know that -- " The words tripped over her tongue as they came out, she couldn't think in a straight line.

He shook his head at her. "You can, you can duel, you're faster with a wand than I was -- I've been practising -- you had seven years at Hogwarts, you can do it."

She shook her head in return the entire time he spoke. She didn't want to tell him if she didn’t have to, not right now, it would make things immeasurably worse and that wasn't worth it. "No, Jeremy. I _can't,_ " she replied emphatically, pleading for him to just understand.

He looked at her, took in her panic and her desperation, and sucked in a breath to calm himself down. He exhaled and looked at her, moving his arms around her waist. "What is it?" he asked.

All the sudden her resolve broke cleanly in half, and she collapsed into him as she burst into tears. She clung to him tightly as she sobbed into his chest, too hard to speak. After a moment, she forced herself to be calm enough to talk to him. "I didn't want to tell you like this, but it wasn't because I wanted to keep it from you. Don't be mad, please -- " She hiccupped painfully, and winced. "I'm pregnant."

Jeremy held her close until she finished speaking, and then his grip weakened as her last two words hit him with full force, leaving him light-headed and stunned. He felt her weight against him, breathed in at some point, and gently put a hand to her stomach. "You're pregnant," he repeated, voice low.

There was a nod, she was unable to speak again. She didn't dare pull back any, she could feel that she was dizzy from all the oxygen she was getting. "Nine weeks," she said, taking a ragged breath and letting it go.

He realised, as his brain started to slowly work again. "You weren't sick," he said. "You were... you were pregnant. Sick. I sent you to Hati's and you were pregnant." He felt himself paling. "I didn't know. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"It's _fine,_ someone had to go." She moved one hand, to wipe her nose on the edge of her sleeve with a rather indelicate sniffle. "It's why I didn't say anything. You don't need something else to worry about."

"I -- I want to know." It was true, it was more to worry about, more reason not to die, but that wasn't the point. "I want to know. Because once this is over, it'll be the three of us, Julia." He kissed her cheek.

She cried again, this time out of relief. It was a lot more to worry about, but she felt considerably lighter than she had for awhile. "Yeah," she exhaled. "It will be."

He hated when she cried, because he felt useless, and of all the things Jeremy Curenton strived to be, the last of them was useless. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry that I can't help, I'm _sorry,_ if I could..."

" _I_ can't help," she said, lifting her head, but avoiding looking up at him. Instead she traced a finger over the chain around his neck he had his ring on- - invisible, but still there. She could feel it. "I'd go if I could, they're my... I would fight. But I can't. Or, well, shouldn't."

"No. Stay safe. You should even not be here, I don't know how safe the Den will be if we lose, or even if we win -- they might go after the Den." He touched her cheek, and lifted her face to his. "Go home, take care of yourself. Take care of both of you."

She looked at him then. "I'm not going while you're here. Especially if -- " _If this is the last time I see you._ She wasn't going to say it out loud, as though not saying it would make it less likely to happen. "I ate cereal. I _hate_ cereal. But I was hungry for it. I think the baby was hungry for it." The change in subject from the morbid to the mundane edged on absurd, but it was the only way she could carry on the conversation.

The absurdity caught on him, though, because the whole situation was surreal enough as it was. He gave her a brief kiss and a slightly amused look. "I'm sorry. No more cereal for you. How has it been?" He tried to keep it light, like they weren't both terrified he'd die and leave her behind.

"... Different," she decided. "The morning sickness is dreadful, sometimes it stays with me all day. That's what -- well. That's what that was when you were back last."

Jeremy looked at her now, and it was so _obvious._ He'd been so focused on wars and sabotage that he hadn't noticed his own wife and best friend pregnant right in front of him. "Who else knows?"

"Well." She contemplated how to answer that. "I didn't tell anyone. I thought you should be the first one to know. If your mum or dad think anything, they haven't said it to me. But when I went to Hati... she knew. She knew and she said it, I guess people heard it... it was weird."

"Well." He sent her a thin smile. "Look what we've done so far. Parenting should be nothing." He took a moment to really consider it. "A kid. _We're_ really having a kid."

"Yeah," she said, and her heart really began pounding at that. Jeremy knew and that only made it more real. "Timing could be a lot better, though."

"I wasn't sure we could. Some books say we can't, some say we can," he said, slipping back into the much more comfortable position of know-it-all. "Females can't, but -- well, obviously I can." He paused, having never quite considered the really important question. "Did you -- did you want kids?"

"Obviously _you_ can. I think we need to have words with these supposed authors," she said dryly. She considered it before she answered. "I... didn't really think much about it," she admitted, "not before now, anyway, but I think you'll be a good dad. So, yeah. But..."

_You think I'd be a good dad?_ he wanted to ask, because it was surprising, but he ignored it. "But?" he prompted.

"I don't know." She pushed her hair off her forehead. "I guess I just didn't figure it'd be right away."

"That's the way of it," Jeremy said wryly. "But no worries. We'll have a baby in peacetime. I know it." He kissed her forehead and added, "My parents should know, in case."

She kept a calm face up, although the idea of telling someone else today fairly terrified her. "If they suspected, I'm going to feel silly," she said.

"Not today," he told her, reassuring. "I'll be back soon, we can tell them then, when they'll probably have already guessed."

"And I'll still feel silly," she said and gave a small, derisive laugh, putting her hands to her cheeks. Then she added, so quietly he could ignore it if he wished (and why shouldn't he, she'd only said it so many times), "You better be back."

Jeremy grinned at her. "I'll be back. We'll have won the war, we'll have a baby, all the happy news at once." He was even planning now.

Something inside her always jumped when she saw him grin like that, but it went deeper this time. She went with it, pushing everything else back; she could start the self-doubt later. "Yeah. All that good stuff."

"Yeah," he teased her, and kissed her again, speaking without hesitation when he pulled away. "Julia. I love you."

She then laughed, caught up in the moment . "I love you," she answered, toying with the hair at the back of his neck. "I guess it's kind of late to ask... but did you? Want kids, I mean."

"Yeah, I guess," he said, then amended quickly, "I wasn't actively thinking about it, but... you'll be a great mum if you take care of a kid like you take care of me." He smiled. "And I want to have it all with you. So... why not kids? I'm sure we can take 'em."

"A great mum," she repeated contemplatively, but she smiled.

Jeremy nodded firmly. "A great mum. Even better wife. Even though her husband has to leave soon because he has to teach Fenrir's assassin how to duel."

"Oh. Really." She thought about it for a moment. "Well. They all had him on his back in the foyer at Hati's, so that'll make things interesting at the very least."

"I wish you hadn't been anywhere near him," Jeremy said, a touch bitter. "Bastard's nearly killed me twice."

"He didn't see me," she said, touching his cheek.

He looked directly at her. "Please, be safe. Go somewhere safe, just until it's over."

She hesitated. "I'll take care of us. I promise."

"Promise me that you'll stay safe. No kid deserves two parents who're suicidally stupid," he half-joked, taking her free hand.

"I promise," she said, with a meaningful look.

He sent her a grin in return for the look. "I will, I know, I'm not stupid."

"I sometimes wonder," she said, but softened the words with a kiss.

He kissed her for longer than might have been wise, and finally forced himself to withdraw. "You're all right?" he checked.

_Until you go._ She nodded. "I'm fine. As I can be, you know."

"Soon enough I'll be back and ranting about the Ministry every day, and you'll want me gone," he informed her. "You'll wonder what you ever saw in me and pity your poor child."

"I won't," she told him, one side of her mouth lifting in a wry half-smile. "Pity the child... maybe."

He laughed and squeezed her hand before stepping back, his hand drifting to the doorknob. "I'm going to go before I -- well, decide not to go."

Julia nodded and crossed her arms in front of her. Not touching him while she did it made saying goodbye easier. It made it possible. "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you." She made herself stay put and smile reassuringly.

It was easier to leave her before, but now Jeremy was looking at her, and he couldn't find a single justification for how she could handle this herself without even an inkling of help from him so he could go save the world. He couldn't fool himself into that. He wasn't just leaving behind Julia, his best friend and wife; he was leaving behind his child. But it was all for the best for everyone, not just him.

After a long moment of silence, the slight smile fell from Jeremy's face and he opened the door. "I'll see you," he echoed, as a firm, genuine promise, before he closed the door and made a straight shot back to the unified pack.

~*~

Night was falling and Peter Pettigrew couldn't get the Prewetts out of his mind. Gideon and Fabian had died three days earlier by the hands of five Death Eaters, since attacks by two, three and four hadn't been enough to take down the brothers. If they'd just given in, they might've been alive, and he wouldn't have had to watch Molly Weasley crying into a handkerchief at the double funeral today.

Sirius had taken them all aside, though, and told them to meet in Godric's Hollow later that night, and Peter was really worried. Unnecessarily, of course, but worry and paranoia were the basic two emotions any spy felt if he wasn't a complete idiot. And Peter was most certainly not a complete idiot.

Either way, he waited a few minutes at the Potters' door for Sirius to arrive before knocking.

Sirius felt as though his brain were going to break into pieces, as he Apparated to Godric's Hollow. When James and Lily had made the decision to go into hiding and asked him to be Secret Keeper, there had been no question in his mind. It didn't require any consideration, because he would have done anything to keep the three of them safe. Still, he had been thinking. Normally it would be joked that this would herald trouble, but he had a good idea this time, and he knew it. 

He nodded hello to Peter, and without preamble knocked on the door. "Some are living and some are dead," he gave the password when he heard footsteps approach from inside, not bothering to wait for it to be requested.

James opened the door, giving a wry smile at the two that only dropped a little when he realised it was only the two of them. Again. Remus might never come again, after the last run-in. "Come in," he said, opening the door. He was still in black; it was hard to get out of that mood.

"Hey," Sirius greeted him somberly, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I need a drink," James said to Sirius, and ushered them in. He closed the door behind Peter, who was lagging behind. "Anyone else want a drink?"

"Please," Peter said, undoubtedly gloomy.

"Sure," Sirius agreed, following James into the sitting room. 

Lily came back down the stairs, after putting her boy down in the nursery. Bless his heart, he could sleep through anything. She knew children were smarter than anyone ever really gave them credit for (and, if you listened to James, Harry more than any), but she wondered how much he could really know and understand. She entered the sitting room, giving the best smile she could manage. "Boys," she greeted.

"Lily," Peter answered in a half-whisper. "Is he asleep?"

"Fast asleep," she said. 

"Good," Sirius said with a nod. "At least one of us should be getting some rest, yeah?"

"Don't know when I'll be getting any sleep next," Peter commented, accepting a drink from James, who was considering the bottle. Apparently Peter wasn't the only restless one.

"Well, the boy is a champion sleeper if nothing else," Lily admitted. 

Sirius could hardly stand it. "We have to talk, all of us," he said seriously, accepting the drink James handed him and downing most of it in one go.

_This isn't all of us,_ James wanted to impulsively say, but held his tongue and drank before he spoke. "Why not get right to it, all right," he agreed.

Sirius nodded and drank the rest of whatever was in his glass. "You two asked me to be your Secret Keeper and believe me, there is nothing I wouldn't do for you, and Harry." He hesitated, watching their faces change from serious to slightly confused, and he glanced at Peter. "But... I think I have a better idea. If you'll agree to it."

Peter tensed and looked away from Sirius to the floor. This couldn't be going where he was starting to think it was, and maybe if he was lucky Sirius was going to come up with something completely harebrained. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Shut up, Padfoot." James refilled his glass and gave Sirius a look of disbelief. "You're our Secret Keeper and that's the end of it, we trust you."

"No, but -- okay, trust me," he said, holding up his hands. "Listen. It's not that I'm going to talk, or anything, but I might not even need to. They say Voldemort can reach right into your brain and just take the information he wants, he doesn't even need to ask questions. Giving you up without meaning to is worse than... anything. I'd sooner die myself."

"Sirius," Lily said harshly, not out of any anger towards him, but after the McKinnon and Bones families being massacred, Benjy Fenwick, and most recently the Prewetts, she could hardly stand it. 

"You know the chances, Lily," he answered.

"Then what are you suggesting?" she asked. 

Sirius looked at Peter. "We fake them out."

Peter didn't have to fake his shock. " _Me?_ " he practically squeaked, his voice rising high in nerves. No, it was too perfect. Unnervingly so. "Are you _serious?_ "

James looked between Sirius and Peter, then looked to Peter and said, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but good idea, Sirius."

Sirius nodded. "Right it is." 

"Sirius," Lily started, and looked at James. "I don't -- why? That's not really how the Fidelius Charm works anyway, I mean, not so far as they know -- "

"Okay," Sirius cut her off before she started in on something that would waste a lot of time and probably be not very interesting to listen to. "But if it did... I mean, think of it this way. Everyone is going to expect me to be the Secret Keeper, which means once they can't find you and they figure that out, they'll come after me. And honestly, fine. But if they're coming after me, then they're not going to be going after Wormtail. And then you stay safe. _Harry_ stays safe."

James nodded to himself and put his arm around his wife as he considered it. "Lily?" he asked her, after a moment.

She hesitated, crossing her arms in front of her. "I don't..." She looked at Peter, and at Sirius. "Whatever you think," she told James.

"Really?" James sent her a wry little smile, looked to Sirius and said it. "I say we do it." _I still trust you, I think you could do it. But let's do it._ He nodded to their new Secret Keeper, who was conspicuously silent. "Peter?"

It was like they knew, but they couldn't have known. He was too careful, and, if Sirius doubted himself, and everyone doubted the ever-absent Remus, Peter had to be in the clear. It was just too perfect, too clean. He stood and wore a worried smile. "You trust me with this?" he asked.

"Seriously, no one will even think twice about it. It's perfect," Sirius said, almost dismissive.

Of course not. He was just Wormtail, he'd almost forgotten. "Right," Peter said uncertainly, then rallied. "Okay. I'll do it." He smiled. "Thanks, James, Lily." No guilt. There was no time for guilt. This was his only chance to survive.

Lily smiled, albeit wanly. “We trust you, Peter,” she said.

Peter flashed an anxious smile. "I'm... glad to help," he said, with some cheer. "I'll be here tomorrow, right for lunch."

"Of course, only food can get him here," James said dryly to Sirius.

Sirius half-laughed. "It'll work out," he assured Lily, seeing her still worried look. 

Lily nodded. "I'm sure," she nodded.

"Well. I have to go," Peter said, hesitantly. "Order work -- I'm meeting with Caradoc." Half-true, which was just enough. "I was just going to stop in, really."

"Go on, Wormtail. Thanks," James called, as Peter grabbed his cloak to go out into the chilly October air.

"Good night, Peter," Lily said after him. The door closed before she felt like she could move, and then she collapsed into the windowseat. 

"It'll work, it'll be okay," Sirius said. "It's foolproof."

"And we're just the fools to prove it," James concluded. "Come on, I'm hungry. Let's eat." He abruptly left the room. If there was one thing he didn't want to talk about, this was it.

Sirius nodded, and looked back to Lily. "Coming?" he asked.

"Go ahead. I'll come in a minute. Just don't burn down my kitchen," she said.

"No burning down the kitchen, I promise," he said, backing out of the front room and following James into the kitchen.

Lily willed her heart to stop racing. She leaned her head against the chilly window pane, and watched the wind blow the leaves to and fro. She knew she was supposed to be a Gryffindor, but all she could think was about how scared she was. _Things are okay,_ she told herself, and leaned back against the wall. _Okay._

~*~

Newt had made a resolution. It wasn’t the new year, it wasn’t even close, but he needed to make a resolution to take back his department. He’d turned his back, and Barty Crouch had appropriated the werewolves – inasmuch as they could be appropriated. There was only one werewolf in the United Kingdom that Barty Crouch was looking for, as far as they knew, and all of the others were going to get stepped on along the way.

He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to prevent this, especially with a Registry that was run as it was, and only a raucous minority behind him. But he would sooner die in his office than see this happen.

The Department’s press room had been filled to capacity, and there were people standing outside the doors, to listen. It wasn’t often that Newt Scamander had directly addressed the press, and not in his own Department. He wondered if Mary Brookstanton was present – he hoped so. She needed to hear this.

The second he strode onto the platform, there was a flash of photography and the murmur of voices started. He blinked, the image of the flash permanently imprinted on his retina. So much for seeing if anyone was there. His press secretary, Katie, motioned to the podium, giving him the floor. Newt nodded his thanks to her, and stepped up, cricket bat in hand. It was mostly a crutch for him, he acknowledged, but that didn’t mean he was above waving it around if the occasion called for it. The second he stopped, hands shot into the air. He held up one hand and a hush fell – he loved being head of a department sometimes. “This is how it’s going to work,” he started. “This is not question and answer time. I’m going to give my speech, you are going to listen and write down the parts that interest you, take it back to wherever you come from, and make it news. And Katie here’s not going to answer any of your questions once I leave, either, so just throw them away,” he said, motioning behind him at the secretary.

Hands fell out of the air at that, and he took a breath. “Several weeks ago, Barty Crouch told our esteemed friends at the Daily Prophet that the MLE would be working closely with my Department in the matter of the werewolves of Great Britain and Ireland. The fact is that first, I am appalled and dismayed that the first I’d heard of it was reading the paper over breakfast. Second, I am shocked that Barty Crouch would presume to reach where he has no jurisdiction. Last, I am not sure how precisely he plans for this… collaboration to take place. He doesn’t really have the manpower to spare, and I do not have the funding.

“But I have to thank Barty Crouch as well,” he added. “He has opened my eyes to things that are being hidden in my own Department… things about the people working under me. Werewolves have become a concern in this country, and we have not been able to do our part for one reason or another. The reason itself doesn’t matter, but our inability to do this job has repeatedly led to tragedy. People have died, children have gone missing, and families have suffered enormously.

“Since the 1960s, what was once the Werewolf Registry has deteriorated considerably. Werewolf Support Services was established when the Registry was moved from the Being to the Beast division the first time, and is now run by a group of volunteers who donate their time and considerable efforts. The Werewolf Capture Unit, older than the Registry even, ironically enough came about when an erstwhile head of Magical Law Enforcement said it wasn’t their job to capture and manage dangerous Beasts – ‘you don’t send Hit Wizards after a manticore’ were his exact words, I believe. All of these units, in _both_ the Beast and Being division, are running on a combined quarterly and yearly budget that could generously be described as meager. They say money cannot buy happiness, but it will buy you considerable ability to do good.

“Detractors of the Registry and other divisions have been nothing but derisive, saying no one has been helped – that no one uses them. The Registry was never meant to be a quick fix, or a catch-all, or sadly as dehumanizing as it has become. It was once hoped that it could become the link that bridged the gap between werewolves and wizards. Instead, the Ministry has seen fit to do none other than continue to legislate, demonise, and unfailingly fight against them, allowing old prejudices to stand in the way of helping people who are their citizens, leaving the business of helping them to private citizens.

“I do not deny that werewolves are dangerous in transformation, or that the law does not have the right to punish those who willfully break it. The law does _not_ have the right to punish people who have done no wrong and it does not have the right to punish a crime that has not yet been committed. So I stand here before you today with a promise: I intend to see that these units have the funding, leadership, and therefore ability to work towards their goals. I will personally work closely with division heads to ensure that goals are met and results are seen. As for Barty Crouch, he now has the Quaffle, and we are going to play some real political Quidditch now. Thank you.”

He stepped down, and even though he’d said there wouldn’t be any questions, hands shot into the air some people cried, “Mr. Scamander!” in an attempt to get his attention. In the back of the room, some people laughed. Katie stepped to the podium and began to thank them, saying she would return soon to deliver the rest of the morning’s news. Newt stepped out of the room and into the hallway, away from the voices of the press.

Katie stepped out behind him and closed the door. “Impressive address, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Katie. Do you suppose it’s going to penetrate any skulls?”

Katie gave a bemused smile in return. “Well, if it doesn’t, we can just blame it on the bland rhetoric.” 

Newt chortled. “I like you. Don’t ever let an employer try to break you of that sarcasm.”

“My armor of misanthropy and barbed tongue of righteousness? Never.”

“Good. Higher ups say they hate it, but I promise you that they appreciate the honesty.”

“Does that mean you’re going to employ me forever?” she asked in a deadpan. 

“Go do your job,” he said, heading back to his office. Katie saluted his retreating form and opened the door to reenter the press room.

~*~

The wolf had gone numb to Remus, ignoring him and biding its time until it could take over. Remus and his double consciousness had come to a sort of agreement: if it didn’t interfere in matters concerning the plan to bring Fenrir’s rule to an end and he avoided the wizards he knew too well, then it could have its one night a month. Being at odds with himself was a familiar feeling but it was almost worse than ever, and Remus was more frightened of himself than of Fenrir or anyone else at this point. Bodily harm was, upon reflection, a small price to pay for achievement. The only difference was that he was the one inflicting the harm on his body instead of Wesley kicking his arse.

He tried not to care about it, dismissing it as a noble sacrifice. But the day after the full moon when he still laid out, his head aching and having scant memory of the previous night, he just kind of wanted to be dead, or at least unconscious. And tomorrow, they would be fighting Hati’s pack. Everything they had done was coming to a culmination tomorrow. To avoid dreading it, he avoided thinking about it at all. 

Instead, he tried to conjure a memory of his mother’s hands on his face after a bad full moon in his childhood, or the characteristic, impish grin when she would give him a Muggle band-aid on a cut small enough to merit one. All he could come up with was his father magically healing his larger wounds in silent penance for his hasty words. _I’ve won,_ the wolf crowed, and he pushed back at it, irritated. It was difficult to integrate with something that was so unlike him.

At least by this time tomorrow it would be over, he reflected wryly.

The door creaked open, and he lifted his head to look. Briony slid in through the crack, and shut the door behind her. She regarded him for a moment, and he returned the look. “You sounded like you had a hellish night,” she said, as though it were the explanation for her presence.

He should have expected to see her. She looked tired, but definitely none the worse for the wear. “I feel like I’ve taken a bludger to the head,” he said, laying back down.

“What’s a bludger?” she asked, coming in further. She reached to his wolf as she did so, and braced herself for it to latch on. It did so, as it always did, and she frowned. It was _hurt_ , how could Remus not see that?

“In Quidditch. Two bludgers fly ‘round the pitch, and some players hit them at the opposing team and try to knock them off their brooms,” he rattled off, as always super-conscious of how the wolf reacted to Briony’s. He attempted to rein it in, but it didn’t want to be held.

“Oh, right, those."

"Oddly familiar with the term, are you?"

"No one can spend two months with Jeremy Curenton and expect to walk away without knowing anything about Quidditch. Play a game with rules like that, and wizards _still_ call us the barbarians,” she said dryly, and touched his arm to stop him. “It’s okay, let it,” she added, and nudged him to make room.

He obliged her, no longer bewildered by her unique idea of personal space. She rested easily on her side in the small bit of the narrow bed that he’d left vacant. “You would say that,” he said, almost joking.

“I did just say that,” she said simply, missing the dryness of his tone.

_Hand,_ the wolf demanded. She understood and wordlessly lifted her free hand. He was too tired to put up a fight and set his hand against hers, palm to palm. Though he wouldn’t have said it (not that he needed to) it was a pleasant relief. “Yes, obviously,” he said. His thumb stroked along the inner curve of hers, towards her hand. “So I guess I was pretty bad last night.”

“You sounded lonely. And angry,” she added, interlocking their fingers together. She let the feeling of pack wash over her too and reveled in the relaxed state, a refuge from her own thoughts, nervous and scared at the impending battle to come.

“Well. I suppose,” he allowed. “I guess having me for a first is a bit like having a terminally ill heir to the throne.”

Briony didn’t know that ill was the word that she would have used. “Geoff didn’t have very good control, either,” she offered. “But he still would have made a good Father to the pack.” Of course, Geoffrey had been what Remus was not in matters of temperament, and likely would have found Remus insufferable if he had lived. She suddenly missed her brother terribly, again; it always struck her when she didn’t think it was going to. It made her sick, and she swallowed the wave of nausea that swept over her. Even if Wesley hadn’t killed Geoffrey on that particular night, she wasn’t at all sure that he would have survived this far in the unified pack.

“It doesn’t matter,” Remus said, echoing her final thought, voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t want to take over the pack, and that’s going to be what everyone thinks when they see me side against him.”

“You don’t want the pack? Ever?”

“No,” he answered immediately. “I said as much when I came here, but…” He shook his head, indicating he didn’t have anything else he wanted to say about it. Briony had very clear ideas about pack, and she’d been with Conor since she was a young girl. It was very ingrained in her sensibility. “I’m not fit for it.”

There was little else to be said, then. “If you don’t want it, then your heart wouldn’t be in it.” His heart, or his head. Remus would be sure to be an unorthodox pack leader, and while in most packs it might not be so prove so terrible, for a pack that was the cradle of radical orthodoxy, it would certainly show problems. “What did you mean when you said I would say that?”

He hesitated. “I just meant that I probably shouldn’t have been surprised to hear it, given your… shall we say, hate for wizards and witches at large.”

Remus’s discomfort was growing, she could sense that, but she remained calm and comfortable. “I don’t hate wizards and witches, they hate me,” she replied, tracing some of the lines on his palm. “They hate me because they don’t understand.”

“They don’t understand,” he repeated blankly.

“You’re telling me _you’ve_ always had complete understanding?” The words could have been accusatory, but they weren’t. She wasn’t even paying that much attention on the immediate level, more concentrated on his wolf taking refuge in hers. It was much more comfortable than thinking about what laid ahead of them. She supposed non-werewolves weren’t the only ones who lacked understanding, sometimes.

He concentrated heavily on her touch, allowing the wolf to do as it would. “I used to,” he said finally. James’s words still troubled him deeply, he didn’t dare try back to see Lily if his words had reached her or if he’d been written off completely. It hurt to think of, and he was sure that it was no less than he deserved. 

Briony couldn’t help but wonder if he was being purposely clueless, or if he was just like that. “They’re wizards, Remus,” she said quietly. “They can’t understand, they can’t _know_ – “

“There’s more to understanding than knowing, Briony. Understanding isn’t just about firsthand knowledge. Sometimes it’s about knowing the limits of that knowledge and being okay with that and able to sympathise all the same. Just because something isn’t or hasn’t happened to you doesn’t make it… it doesn’t make it unreal, or crazy – “ 

“Shh,” she cut in firmly. He could feel the exhalation on his neck, and he closed his eyes against her stare, but not against her thoughts. She frowned again. He was upset, his face said that clearly enough, and the wolf… it wasn’t happy, exactly, but it was… healing? It was the only word she could come up with to describe it. It was lodged contentedly in the forefront of his consciousness, touching hers, drawing it out of her as though it were pulling a length of string out of a box. Whatever she had been planning to say remained on her tongue.

He lost his own uncertainty in the moment and impulsively reached to touch her forehead but stopped. There wasn’t going to be anything there except skin, a stray spring of her blonde curls, and a furrow as she glanced back at him. There was a moment, a rare moment, when he and the wolf were in perfect tandem. He balked at it, pulling out, and the man and wolf were at odds once again.

Briony felt the joining, and she felt the separation again. It made her inexplicably angry, and she pushed back at him mentally. “You know, when I said that wizards don’t understand, I didn’t just mean non-werewolves,” she snapped, lifting herself up on one elbow. 

He looked back sharply. “I understand, Bri.”

“Oh _Remus._ ” She looked at him sadly. “You think you understand, but you don’t. You just had your wolf, why did you let it go again? It doesn’t want to hurt you, or be treated like it’s something that’s wrong with you. Don’t you know how hurt it is?” She leaned over him as her intensity mounted. “I can feel it every time it touches mine, why can’t you?”

This was a far cry from Briony’s usual serious tone or her dry humour, and Remus paid attention. She pressed back at him on every level, demanding an answer. “I – I suppose that…” _You **don’t** understand,_ the wolf told him, in a tone that he supposed would have been interpreted as flat if it had been given voice. “I suppose I don’t understand. On some level.”

The look on her face softened again. There was a long silence in the room, broken only by a muted _tap tap tap_ against the glass pane in the window. She looked up. It was raining. The room had gotten darker when clouds covered the waning moon. “I suppose I don’t understand, either,” she mused. “Why it’s so difficult, anyway.”

“It’s difficult for both of us, then,” he said, and then cleared his throat. Strands of her hair fell down and brushed his cheek, her proximity combined with the nearly total mind meld of the wolves was practically intoxicating, without meaning it to. 

Her leg was sneaking over his, and even though she was moving slowly, it didn’t feel like slow motion. It felt way too fast. _What are you doing?_

_Trust me._ “You know, some werewolves say that their wolves were always a part of them… and when they were bitten, they were awakened. It almost makes _us_ the higher life form.”

His hand lifted again, to go to her hip this time and just as last time, he hesitated. But it didn’t seem to matter, because she wasn’t paying attention. “You know why it’s not odd or unusual for a werewolf to choose one of their own to be intimate with?” she continued on with what he presumed was a rhetorical question. “Especially a named. There’s already that… connection. The tie. There’s trust, and love. In the best of situations, anyway.”

“Are you telling me the sex is better because there are two different levels?” It was a deflective, flippant question, because he was very aware of where her legs were (situated on either side of him, her bony hips straddling his), where her hands were (clenching onto his shirt), and of the look on her face (terribly honest and open and unreadable all the same, he dared not push her with the wolf to find out).

“I wouldn’t know,” she said in a tone so low it was almost lost in the sound of the rain. “But I know it doesn’t work without those two things, so does everyone else. It’s why we could trick Fenrir into killing Laurel, it’s why Geoff and Mel worked, it’s why everyone thinks Conor screws me.”

A remote part of Remus’s brain noted that she used the present tense, perhaps not unintentionally. “And why does everyone think I screw you?” he asked.

“Because they think you’re the heir to the pack taking your privilege. Because I don’t want to die. I couldn’t refuse you,” she said, swallowing hard. She reached out to him with the wolf. _I want you._ It sounded fake, even in her own head; she flinched and couldn’t stand to see the look that crossed his face.

_No you don’t,_ he responded quickly, discouraging. This time his hands went right where they wanted to, holding on to her arms. _Look at me._ Something changed in her eyes, and there was no wolf, only the girl, pleading. “Bri,” he said. She couldn’t want this. “ _Bri_ ,” he repeated, a little more severely.

She looked away again and he could feel her retreat into the back corners of her head. “I don’t,” she said tremulously. “I don’t, I shouldn’t have said anything, I’m sorry…” she trailed off, words failing her. She hid her face in his neck, going rigid with the effort of keeping herself together; she was determined to remain calm and not let the extreme stress on them all get the better of her.

Remus touched her back, lightly, but she tightened her hold and so did he. “We’re all scared for what’s to come,” he said. That much he understood. “It’ll be over tomorrow.”

She tried to laugh, but it came out strained. “One way or another, yeah, it will be,” she agreed. It wasn’t much of a comfort.

The embrace was one of the simplest feelings of comfort he’d had in a long time. “We’ve come this far, we’re not about to die now, I should think,” he said calmly. The universe couldn’t be that cruel – then again, had the universe shown them any mercy yet?

“I don’t think anyone thinks they’re about to die before something like this,” she replied restrainedly, and cleared her throat. She felt a little bit better, but there was still an overwhelming sense of dread. “If the witch is coming back tomorrow and she brings all of her friends with her… then we’re in trouble.” 

Remus hesitated. For this final stage of the plan they were counting heavily on Alecto bringing no one to fight Fenrir’s side – or almost no one. They had seven. The four of Hati’s family were all formidable duelists, and Jane was easily of the same caliber, so Remus had been told. Jeremy had learned fast, mastering everything Remus had been able to teach him with startling ease. Remus himself didn’t want to overestimate his power, but he was no slouch. But Alecto’s friends, Death Eaters all, were nothing if not aggressive; they fought dirty and used magic that you didn’t find outside of the Restricted Section. If they all answered Alecto’s call, they would be in trouble, and if they lost… “Yeah, if she does, then we are,” he admitted.

Briony didn’t answer for a long time, curled up against Remus’s side. The only sound in the room was the rain. “That’s what I figured,” she said with a note of finality. “Can I stay for a bit?”

“Stay as long as you want,” he answered, and she settled. They listened to the rain and tried not to worry about tomorrow. It was, for the most part, no longer in their hands.


	25. A Pale Horse Riding

_War is everywhere, now. It is in the water we drink, the food we eat, the air we breathe. Every heartbeat is a push of hot blood through our bodies that runs the war machine, and every step we take brings us closer to our next battle. The end of the path is nowhere in sight, but that doesn't mean that you stop walking._ Joshua Merrythought, Minister for Magic. "Speech to the Wizengamot Assembly, August 31, 1944," also known as "The Red Speech."

_October 1981_  
Ever since Jeremy Curenton himself came to declare that the unified pack meant to start the war within the week, Hati's pack had been tense and preparing for a fight. Hati herself spent the time deciding what to do with her pack -- who would be fighting, who wouldn't, and where. This was more difficult than it should have been, despite the respect she commanded, because the decisions were next to impossible. Who was she prepared to throw in front of the pack that had conquered all the other major packs in the United Kingdom?

She caught Ben Skoll by the shoulder and tugged him out of the kitchen without further comment. "Ben," she said, "are we ready?"

Ben regarded Hati for a moment. "Well," he started. He wasn't predisposed to the black humour that seemed to have settled over some of the other members of the pack, and so there was no ready answer. "I believe in as much as we can hope to be prepared... we are."

Hati watched her sons dueling outside through the nearby window. "We have more wands," she said, "so long as the Death Eaters don't come in strength. They're not likely to overestimate us." It was half a question.

"But they're not likely to underestimate us, either. Especially since they know how many wands there are," he answered, following her gaze out the window at Adam and David. "Granted, what Fenrir doesn't know is that a number of his own are planning on mutinying against him in the fight."

"We have the element of surprise if nothing else," she had to agree. "So long as people are more courageous than cowardly we'll be ready for them." But it was still Fenrir Greyback's pack, and so many had died. How couldn't she be worried?

The disturbing train of thought ended when both of her sons stopped dueling each other and turned on someone else. Hati strode to the window and shoved it open. "What's going on?" she shouted.

Jeremy dropped his Shield Charm and did his best to keep his footing, though the pressure of the day was definitely taking its toll. "It's me," he called to Hati.

Adam only took his eyes off Curenton to exchange a fast look with his brother. "What're you doing here?" he asked warily, not dropping his wand.

Ben followed Hati to the window and looked out at Jeremy and the two boys. "I'm not sure I like this," he said in a low voice, ignoring the chilly, late October breeze that blew in the open window. 

Jeremy pushed his hair out of his eyes and said, "They're coming. Today. Soon. They didn't want to give you time to prepare. I hope you are."

Adam looked back at David. "About time, then. We're as ready as we are ever going to be."

Hati leaned out of the window. "You came yourself. Why?" she called to him.

"Because you need warning," Jeremy said with a dark sort of amusement. "They're coming right to your door, Alecto managed to make Portkeys, and Wesley's armed to the teeth. We're going to win, I just want to minimize the death toll. I have to get back."

"We're not even going to get the chance to keep them out," Ben realised, and called out, "How many Death Eaters besides Alecto? Do you know now?"

"Just her and her brother, unless she's got plans to have others meet them here. That's not the point." Jeremy forced himself calm with a sharp breath. "She brought wands. She taught Fenrir and Wesley. Just be ready for it."

There wasn't time to be properly outraged at the blatant hypocrisy, that the man who would call himself Father to all werewolves was fighting like a wizard. Ben wondered if Fenrir was completely blind to it because he wished to be, or if it just happened. "Wonderful," he said dryly. "Let them come. We will win."

Jeremy nodded to the lot of them and reached for his wand. "It's been an honour fighting with you, mates," he said, and Apparated.

Nothing answered him except the rattle of the trees as they were shaken by the chilly breeze. Adam looked up at the window that framed his mother and Ben. "Orders, generals?" he asked dryly.

Hati looked outside, where a group of children were playing with a football a distance from where her boys had been dueling, and to a group of teens gathered even further than that. "Everyone in the house," she snapped, and shut the window.

Adam took a moment to take in a deep breath, before he whistled through his teeth. "Hey, everyone, let's take it inside! Now!"

David stuck his wand in his pocket and watched the kids race back inside. "This is it," he said to his brother. "We're going to face bloody Death Eaters."

"Yeah, we are," Adam said, glancing sideways at his younger brother. "They're coming to our door, even. No picking them off."

"Should be a good fight," David reasoned, and put his hands in his pockets. "I bet Mam's about to give orders. Who should stay on guard?"

"You go, I'll stay," he replied, jerking his head toward the house. "Shouldn't take her too long. The moment's just finally arrived, that's all."

David nodded and surveyed the area before he finally ducked inside the house in time to see the pack gathering. He gave a brief wave to Edward, who looked more than disturbed at the turn of events, and nudged Jane when he found her. "Has she said anything yet?" he asked.

Jane jumped when she realized David was now standing beside her, and she shook her head. The so-called turn of events had set her on edge, and it took her a moment to find her voice. "No, nothing yet," she answered, but kept her eyes on Hati, who was in turn glancing at each of the assembled members of the pack.

Hati surveyed her pack, only speaking when she felt almost certain that the whole of her pack was gathered. "If you know you can fight, we'll have you," she said. "It's your choice, but don't throw your lives away. Our plans have changed. They're coming directly to our door, and we must be more than prepared to force them back." She paced. "Those who aren't fighting should go upstairs, Edward will guard you. The rest stay with me. Our wands should already be out on patrol at their best stealth. Adam, David, where are you?"

"Adam's on patrol, it's just me, Mam," David spoke up, waving a hand to catch his mother's attention. "And Jane's here, what do you need?"

Hati stopped pacing, and gave David a nod. "Our original plan stands for you. Stealth, close in on them, pick off the Death Eaters or at least draw them away from the thick of the battle, and especially the house."

Jane nodded. She hoped there wouldn't be too many of them to be easily handled. "Strength in numbers," she reminded David with a wry half-smile.

David nodded to her, with a grim smile. "Let's go kick some arse." He Disapparated right from that spot.

Jane exhaled and stepped around the assembly to leave by the front door, uncomfortably warm all of the sudden. She drew her wand and prepared to keep close to the house as the boys circled further out. Their wait was almost over.

~*~

The house of the unified pack was surprisingly quiet as those who went to fight prepared themselves. Wesley paced back and forth, looking more like a caged animal than a fighter readying himself for war, though his knives were quickly enough in hand. "Save those for that pack of bastards," Fenrir said, staring at the wand Alecto had given him.

Alecto dragged Amycus into the sitting room, where Fenrir, his first and second were already waiting. "We should go soon," she said to the werewolves. "We're wasting time. Fenrir, where’s that waste of a bastard pack leader?"

"Conor will show his face when he's ready to, Alecto, calm down," Fenrir said absently.

Alecto watched Wesley pace far too close to her, and caught the flash of his knives as well as the glare he gave Amycus. "We're not the wizards you want to kill. Put your knives away," she snapped off.

Amycus regarded Fenrir's second as he paced away again, not overly concerned with the werewolf's apparent bloodlust. As Alecto said, he was not the target tonight. "Well I certainly hope he deigns to show soon, we _are_ losing time." He was, much like the pack but for separate reasons, eager to get this over with.

"He will come," Remus repeated testily, merely irritated with the Death Eaters. He wasn't looking forward to the fight, but at this point in the plot he'd much rather it be over. At least there were only two of them.

"He said he was bringing the others, can’t be much longer." Fenrir was just as tense, but keeping good control on the wolf, because a war was stress enough. "Wesley. Put your knives away and go find him. No distractions." He looked away from his second as he brushed past the Death Eaters, and looked at Amycus and Alecto. "They have five wands. Are you prepared?"

"Fenrir, worry about your own people," Alecto dismissed. "We can handle ourselves and anything they throw at us."

Amycus tried not to feel insulted, and it was easy to brush it off as it was obviously not meant as such. "We're more than ready."

"FENRIR," Conor shouted from outside. It brought a smile to Fenrir's lips. "Looks like he was doing his job after all," he said.

Conor walked into the room, followed by Briony and looking quite unimpressed. "Did you think I was going to run off with half of the unified pack?" he asked, utterly deadpan. "We're ready whenever you want to go, _Father._ " He added a deferent bow.

The corner of Briony's mouth quirked upward briefly, but she quickly stopped it and looked at the floor to keep it from being seen. Remus had seen, but kept a perfectly straight face. "Well. Good," was all he trusted himself to say.

"Indeed," Amycus agreed, much less enthusiastic than he might have.

Alecto stared curiously at Conor, but shrugged and walked up to the box containing the Portkeys she'd created, and leaned on it. "Well, Fenrir?" she asked. "Are we going to delay, or catch them by surprise?"

Fenrir shot her a poisonous look and nodded to Wesley, who stood behind the Carrows. "It's time to go," he said, and looked to Remus, giving him an encouraging clap on the shoulder. "We have a war to win."

Remus made himself look back at Fenrir, and nodded. "Portkeys for everyone then," he said.

Alecto levitated the box and followed Conor and his bratty little first outside, and the rest filed out until Fenrir, Remus, and Wesley were left in the room. "I'm going to kill her," Wesley said to Fenrir; the scars were not forgotten. "I'm going to kill her and break her wand."

"I'll love to see it. A female pack leader," Fenrir said with a snort. "Halfway through the fight she'll surrender." He started to leave, but turned back. "This is the beginning of our new order," he told his two sons. "So do me proud."

He had no idea. Remus nodded again, and took a deep breath, checking to make sure his wand was at his side for the hundredth time that day. He looked around as groups accepted Portkeys as they were handed to them. He barely remembered to put a hand to one himself, as group after group disappeared, one by one.

Two hundred feet away a group of people appeared, and then another, and David cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself and quickly climbed the nearest tree to perch on the first sturdy branch. A quick glance-over showed that the Death Eaters were near the front, flanking the huge werewolf that had to be Greyback. He steadied himself and as they headed up the hill, shot sparks into the air so Jane and Adam would come if they hadn't seen already, and shot a few Stunning Spells in the direction of the Death Eaters from where he stood.

Jane saw David's sparks, and relayed the sparks in case Adam had not seen. He had, she knew that once she could see him running towards her in the near-twilight. He nodded, and she nodded in return, before they both went running for the front of the house.

They weren't the only ones who had seen the sparks. They caught Amycus's eye, and he saw the Stunning Spell in enough time to take the back of his sister's robes and bodily pull her out of the way, and cast a fast Shield Charm to deflect the other two. "They've got snipers, _that's_ quaint," he remarked.

Alecto turned and pushed some werewolves out of her way. "Oh just let me see about our sniper," she said, and shot a curse into a tree when she saw its leaves shaking. The flash of a Shield Charm gave it away. "I've got him," she shouted to Amycus, and shoved through the werewolves.

Adam and Jane were running at full speed from the far edge of the house. She could see the witch going from the approaching pack towards the trees, where David was meant to be. Just a few more yards, and they'd be close enough. "GO," Adam shouted, and they both sent their strongest Electrifying Hexes at the witch.

"ALECTO," Amycus shouted in warning from several feet behind her. Without thinking he put up another Shield Charm, and just in time. The hexes ricocheted off, but it was quickly becoming apparent that they'd been waiting.

Shaken, Alecto stumbled but caught sight of a witch, ducked another hex from the sniper wizard behind her, and lashed out with her wand. " _Sectumsempra!_ "

There was too much speed to do things the way they'd practised until they drew the Death Eaters further away from the house, into the trees. Jane ran ahead of Adam and slid into the wet grass to avoid the hex instead of setting up a Shield Charm, and took a shot at the wizard.

This was annoying, Amycus decided, as he quickly blocked the girl's Bat Bogey Hex. He'd kill her nice and slowly for using such a juvenile tactic in the midst of serious business. He blocked another, unidentifiable hex that the older man with her had sent. 

As the door of Hati's house opened, Wesley was ready with his knives and the throwing knife missed Hati, but hit Edward square in the chest. "A fine start," Fenrir said with a snort.

Keith caught Edward as he stumbled backward, mostly in shock, he hoped. Wrong side for the heart, at the very least. " _Cowards,_ " he yelled at the advancing Unified Pack. 

"Stop wasting our time with your toys," Ben added in a snarl. "Come and _fight._ "

Wesley put his knives away and was the first to land a punch directly on the nearest werewolf, and the unified pack followed, pouring towards the porch and then crawling on top of it to get at Hati's pack. Hati couldn't believe Fenrir's poor planning until she heard the shatter of broken glass and a shout of surprise from her pack members who were still inside. With a Reducto the werewolf crawling into the window hit the ground, but that wasn't enough. A unified pack werewolf touched her and she didn't hesitate to react with a punch.

Alecto blocked another curse and sniggered, twirling her wand arrogantly. "Come out to play," she called to anyone who'd listen, and caught a movement out of her eye. "Ah, _Crucio!_ "

David hit the ground and his stomach turned as he watched the curse fly over him, but he returned a curse to take her out at her feet as he saw Adam behind her.

"Go, Jane," Adam said urgently, and nodded at David. Jane ran ahead into the trees, and the two boys backed closer to the treeline -- the balance was going to be found between drawing them away and appearing to run away. He ducked to miss a Reductor Curse from the wizard, and the tree behind him splintered.

Jane retaliated from her place behind another tree, disappointed when her own Reductor Cuse was blocked. _Come on,_ she swore silently. The faster they got into the woods, the better chance there was of a longer, safer chase.

"AMYCUS," Alecto shouted, and upon catching his eye she gestured at the trees and just went for it, setting the trees surrounding the girl on fire. " _Incendio!_ "

"Shit," David swore, and put one mostly out, taking a nasty hex to his non-wand arm shoulder for his trouble. As the Death Eaters approached he shot a Hotfoot Curse at the wizard and ran for it.

Amycus jumped to avoid the Curse, sending damp earth and a hapless fern flying. "Fire. _Really,_ Alecto?" he asked, irritated, quickly blocking another hex from the elder of the two boys -- he looked familiar, although he couldn't quite place the face. Not that it really mattered, he and his sister should be able to take the three of them easily... if she would stop using _fire._

Jane didn't take a second longer to think about it before she leapt past one of the trees David had put out, working on a second of the three that were now burning. "Ten seconds, Adam!" she yelled. They could contain it in that time.

"It stopped them," Alecto said with a reasonable tone and a little shrug. "And they're distracted!" She took the moment to Apparate the few feet into the fire, shade her eyes, and point her wand at the nearest body to shout " _Avada Kedavra!_ "

Jane shrieked and dove behind another tree, narrowly missing the Killing Curse. Her heart pounded in her ears and she scrambled to her feet before she ran to the next tree, shooting her Electrifying Hex at the wizard.

Amycus didn't have time to block it. He cried out as it took him off his feet and he hit the ground. Alecto's fire put out, their adversaries had disappeared into the trees. "Come out, pretty, you can't hide forever," he sneered, climbing back to his feet, blocking another hex.

Alecto blocked a hex from one of the wizards, ducked another and tried to pick off the younger wizard who was already injured. She tripped him, and although he didn't fall, he was slowed down and she prepared to take him down with another hex.

Adam checked Jane ahead, and behind him for David. It was apparent to him very quickly that David was in trouble. He ran back, and lifted his wand, prepared to cover his brother long enough for him to recover his footing on the ground. He shouted " _Reducto!_ " in order to hit the witch a split second before the wizard yelled, " _Avada Kedavra._ " Adam stopped in midstride and fell to the forest floor, landing heavily. His wand was still clutched in his hand, and his eyes were open but hollow and unfocused with the glassy sheen of death.

David shot a few Stunning Spells back again, not sure what he could possibly use to counter _Unforgivables,_ and stopped instantly when he saw Adam awkwardly sprawled on the ground. "Adam," he shouted. "Adam! Get up!"

Jane held on to the tree to remain upright, and it took her only a few precious seconds to recover enough to throw a Stunning Spell of her own. He wasn't getting up. But she'd _seen_ the Unforgivable hit him and now he was just laying there, no movement. _No, please no._ She swallowed hard. "DAVID," she yelled. "David, come ON."

"ADAM," David shouted, in a panic, then was forced back towards Jane as the witch kept on him. He blocked and dueled, eventually blasting the witch off of her feet with a well-timed Reductor and making a run for it before the wizard killed him too.

Jane sent a hex at the wizard, covering David's back. Amycus blocked it and in that half second, the kid had covered a lot of ground. By the time he glanced down at his sister, she was already getting back to her feet. "One down," he told her wryly. With that they were back in hot pursuit, leaving Adam's body behind.

~*~

The body count was starting to rise, Wesley and Fenrir were already in the pack house fighting, and it was high time the tide turned. Jeremy grabbed Remus by the back of the robes, and hissed, "Now," before striding into the now wrecked sitting room, approaching Wesley, whose knife was poised at a teen boy's throat. He raised his wand and pointedly Stunned him right in the back of the head.

Jeremy took the knife after it hit the ground and looked up at a few people who were watching. "Now," he repeated, and the moment of confusion ended abruptly as Caleb turned on a unified pack werewolf with a punch that broke his nose.

But it was the beginning of a new confusion. Remus went in the opposite direction, towards the back of the house. A flash of blonde hair on the stairs caught his eye. "Bri! Now!" he called.

She ducked another swing from the wolf she was half-heartedly fighting -- only because they thought she was fighting them. She nodded that she understood. With that signal given, she neatly sidestepped them again and pushed them into the stairs. "'Scuse me," she said, jumping down the couple of stairs, reaching a unified pack wolf and unceremoniously shoving him down the stairs.

Jeremy tested the weight of the knife, looked down at Wesley, and honestly considered it for a moment -- but a moment was too long, so he shoved the knife into his belt and gave Wesley a few sound kicks in the side before grabbing his wand to fight again. 

Fenrir broke the neck of a struggling werewolf of Hati's pack and shouted for his second. "WESLEY!" No answer; he was probably distracted. "REMUS." Nothing. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, where one of his werewolves laid crumpled, feebly crawling away, and looked up to see Conor's precious first fighting her own side. Without hesitation, he ascended the few stairs left to grab her by the hair. "I knew we couldn't trust you," he spat.

Briony lost her footing and slid painfully to her knees, and she winced as Fenrir's grip in her hair remained firm even as she began twisting and clawing at his hand. "Let me go," she yelped, ignoring the tears that sprang to her eyes.

Conor's little bitch wouldn't waste his time. Fenrir threw her down the stairs as hard as he could and walked down afterward, pressing his shoe to her neck. "I'm killing you myself and I'm going to enjoy it," he said with a wide grin.

When Remus came back through the door to the entryway, he had Skylar and Ben close behind, although they nearly ran him over as he stopped in his tracks. At the foot of the stairs, he saw that Fenrir had Briony at his mercy, although it was clear that he intended to give her none. He lifted his wand and cast, " _Reducto!_ " without another thought, sending Fenrir crashing into the opposite wall.

"Holy shit, mate," Jeremy exclaimed when he stumbled upon the scene, and covered his mouth as Fenrir stirred. The brief show of humility cost him, as a dazed Wesley nevertheless managed to put a knife to his throat. "Traitors," he snapped.

Remus leveled his wand at Wesley, nervously glancing back at Fenrir. He didn't have a clear shot at Wesley but he would take it if he had to. "Back off, Wesley," he said calmly.

"Traitors," Wesley repeated, vitriol practically dripping from the words. "You turned on your own _Father,_ Remus!"

"If your problem's with Remus maybe you could let me go," Jeremy suggested, leaning his head carefully away from the knife.

Wesley replaced the knife at Jeremy's throat. "You stole my knife, bastard, I've killed for less."

"How about you fight someone that you _didn't_ have to sneak up on," Ben snapped, advancing slowly. "If you even know what a fair fight looks like."

Wesley looked at Jeremy and shoved him aside, looking instead at Ben Skoll. "A father-killer is talking to me about honour and fairness?" he asked.

Ben gave a humourless grin, more a baring of teeth than anything else. "Kind of annoying, isn't it?"

"Then let's see how you do in a fair fight, Ben _Skoll,_ " Wesley said with nothing but contempt.

"Well, you will find," he snapped, before springing into action. He remained mindful of the knife in Wesley's hand, but still with every intention of showing Fenrir's brainwashed cub what was what.

Jeremy snuck past the two and stopped by Remus. He looked down at Fenrir, who stirred but didn't move. "We could kill him," he said, utterly frank.

Remus looked at Fenrir with Jeremy, an absurdly calm moment in the chaos about them. "We could," he said. _He'll be deposed, he won't have anything._ Never mind the onslaught of disgust that the wolf felt at the idea. "Doesn't mean we should."

Jeremy stared at the huge werewolf, the hated werewolf who he'd spent years of his life trying to get to this very place, slumped and weak. He pulled the knife from his belt. "He killed my sister," he said. "He had perfect control and he killed her, and we had to close the casket -- " but the wolf stayed his hand. "He doesn't deserve to live," he said finally, raising his head to look at Remus directly, his expression flat again. "It'll bite us in the arse later if we don't."

"Don't," Conor said from where he leaned on the wall not far from them. "Without the unified pack he's nothing." He held the wound at his side, though his clothes were already darkening with blood, and knelt by his first with a cringe. "Briony," he whispered to her, and pulled at their tie gently, the wolf seeking out hers by nature. _Briony. Wake up._

Briony felt herself being pulled out of the blissful oblivion she'd allowed herself to sink into as she thought she was about to die; it was like she had immersed herself in warm water and was resurfacing into cold air. Her eyes slid open, with the immediate knowledge that something wasn't right. Something was, in fact, completely wrong. Images swam before her eyes as she tried to focus them, but one remained. _Conor._ She tried to speak but no words came.

Conor rested against her then straightened, refusing to give in quite yet to the pain or the exhaustion. No. Not yet. "I'm hurt," he said. _I need you,_ the wolf said. "If I die, I love you. And tell Jane that I love her, and all the others. This is an order, Briony." He kissed her forehead.

Jeremy returned the knife to his belt and looked at Remus. "We have to do something," he said, lowering his voice. "You're just going to let him go?"

Remus didn't answer him right away. He didn't know if he could live with the idea that he let Fenrir Greyback walk if Jeremy turned out to be right and it did come back to bite them -- figuratively, he reflected wryly. But he knew that his conscience wasn't going to let him kill someone defenseless, no matter what their crime. "Reckon I might," he said hoarsely. "Conor's right. Without his unified pack, he won't have anything. That might be worse than death."

Briony half-felt Skylar carefully checking her head, and heard her say that she wasn't bleeding. She'd be fine. _He's not fine, I'm not fine._ Her distress was rising in her throat. "No. You can't," she protested dazedly, ignoring Skylar.

"You're fine. You'll be fine," Conor assured her, and now rested against the floor next to her. "You don't need me now, I've shown you all I can." _Don't hold on, there's no point._ The wolf nudged hers, almost playfully.

The absurdity of the tone struck her harder than she wanted it to, and her laugh came out mixed with a cry. She knew he was right, the wolf knew he was right, it was like when Geoffrey had laid with her on the floor, dying. She wasn’t ready to lose her father. Years more wouldn't be enough. "I love you." _I'd be nothing if you hadn't saved me._

"I'm not dead yet." Conor raised his head to look up at the pair of saboteurs and their Father, and spoke up painfully, "Remus, put that wand of yours to use, eh? Help out a mate."

Remus looked to Conor, his glance softening. There was a dreadful amount of blood. "Of course," he answered.

Well, Jeremy was useless here. "I should see if anyone's dead in that fair fight," he said, backing up. "Keep an eye on Fenrir." He glanced at Conor and Briony, and left in a hurry.

Nobody was dead yet, but Ben's nose was broken and the evidence leaked down the front of his shirt. He ignored it. He'd long since gotten the knife out of Wesley's hand, but he was no less relentless. He shoved the younger man into the opposite wall for a couple seconds of reprieve.

Wesley wasn't having any of that. "Coward," he snarled, going right back to the fight.

Jeremy cleared his throat to catch Ben's attention for a second and pointed at the nearby window as discreetly as he could.

Ben gave the slightest nod and held his ground to the last second. When Wesley was close enough, Ben grabbed him by the shirt front and used the inertia to throw him head first through the window -- the very same window Hati had hexed Wesley through during his first visit to the house.

Jeremy wasn't about to waste any time looking after Wesley or any of the fighting, this was about his people. "Conor's in trouble," he said, and that made it real. _In trouble,_ what a nice way to gloss over it. Agitated, the wolf pressed him. "Conor's dying," he said.

Ben spat -- bloody, he could still taste it -- and contemplated it. David, Adam, and Jane should be leading the Death Eaters back. Tom had run out the back to send up the sparks when he and Sky had followed Remus to the front. "Our other wands will bring them back. We have them on the run, they'll be gone soon. Then we can take care of them. " All the same he moved past Jeremy and back into the entryway, not bothering to check Wesley.

Jeremy followed and looked down at where Remus knelt next to Conor, his expression automatically going grim. "Fucking hell," he said, and gingerly stepped past them to cast a _Mobilocorpus_ on Fenrir. He pulled the knife from his belt again. "I'll be right back."

Eyes went to him; although Remus felt compelled to speak, he doubted Jeremy would pay him mind. "Jeremy..."

Jeremy rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to kill him," he said, a bit exasperated. "I'm ending the fighting." He let Fenrir's head whack against the door as he pulled his Father outside, where more of the fighting was actually taking place. "HEY," he shouted, and when that wasn't effective, he cast a Sonorus charm on his throat and put the knife to Fenrir's. "Hey!"

Well, now there were even more eyes on him. Stares. He spoke without hesitation, but not without obvious weariness. "The war is over. Fenrir Greyback is at our mercy as are all loyal to him. The unified pack is now disbanded; go home, if you still have one. Everyone... just go home. And those loyal to Fenrir had better get the fuck out of here before we get to them." He lowered the knife and with a flick of his wand sent Fenrir flying into a heap on the grass. "Take him, we don't want him."

He took the Sonorus charm off and entered the house again, leaning heavily against the door. "There," he said. "Happy?"

Remus couldn't really say that he was. So he said nothing. Ben touched Jeremy's wolf briefly, before extending the same courtesy to Conor. "I have to say that I was hoping our next meeting was going to be under better circumstances, friend," he told him.

Conor smiled thinly, returning the gesture though his wolf was already growing weak. "Busy few years," he said. "Have you been taking care of my niece?"

Ben returned the smile. "Trust me when I say she's more than capable of taking care of herself -- Sky, what are you -- "

“Your nose,” she said pointedly, moving her hands away from his face. He made a face at her and she gave him a look of her own in return. “Set it or let me, or it’s going to heal crooked.” 

Ben assented. _Do it._ She lifted her hands again as Ben braced himself on her shoulders. She gave a silent countdown, after Remus hesitantly spoke, “I could -- “

But before he could finish his sentence, Skylar’s fingers deftly put Ben’s nose back in place with a slight crunch. Ben winced and held his sleeve under his nose to keep it from bleeding more. He turned his attention back to Conor. "Jane's been nothing but a credit and a compliment since the minute she showed up at our door."

Said credit and compliment was currently racing out of the woods and across the lawn, narrowly in front of David. They were some twenty feet in front of the two Death Eaters, and behind them even were Hati and Tom. Her lungs burned with the oxygen intake. It was over. They'd won. The Death Eaters needed to stop chasing them and get the hell out.

Alecto stopped as the house came in sight, and a familiar heap of old clothes and long hair was in front of it. She felt her breath catch in her lungs. "Amycus," she got out. "Amycus!" She grabbed his sleeve and pointed.

"I see," he snapped. "You heard him, things are finished here." He could not make himself care about the werewolves and whatever little tiff they were sorting out here to make it worth his life, or hers.

"I'm not leaving him here," Alecto insisted, frantic, her heartbeat loud in her ears. "We can't leave him here!"

Adorable. "Then I suggest you muster your considerable reserves of energy and side-along him the hell out of here." A hex caught Amycus and he tripped and slid a considerable distance. He grasped, but his wand had fallen from his hand.

Tom caught up to the Death Eaters, and he put his foot solidly on the man’s chest, keeping his wand trained on the woman. "You are going to gather whatever wolves want to go with you -- if any would be so crazy -- and you are going to leave. _None of you_ are going to come back, ever, otherwise you will not be leaving again. I'm understood, amn't I?" he concluded sharply, leaving no room for disagreement or discussion.

Alecto had never hated someone, perfect strangers or otherwise, quite so much in her life as much as the man who stood in front of her now. " _When_ we return, we won't lose," she spat at him. "Release my brother, _now._ "

His contempt was more than equal to hers. He lifted his foot from Amycus's chest and nudged his shoulder. "Go, get out of here."

Alecto glared contemptuously at the wizard before going to check on Fenrir. She levitated him to his feet and brought him over. "All of the werewolves loyal to the unified pack, come now, this is your chance," she shouted. Much to her surprise -- though she would never admit it -- some came forward to back their fallen leader.

"What the hell," Jeremy said under his breath, watching a small group of werewolves gather around the Death Eaters.

"It's the old ways, Curenton," Conor laughed weakly, and rested his head against the ground once more.

"You're good. But you're not that good," Ben joked dryly, and looked out the open door at the group - and others running back towards the house, Jane in the lead. 

Jane took the steps up to the door two at a time. "They're going," she announced, stating the obvious out of relief. If she said it, it was real. But at the same time, she knew it wasn't over.

Conor sat up immediately at the sound of his niece's voice, winced, but pushed past the pain though the wolf protested. _Accept it. Stop._ "Jane." Briony winced through the pain that radiated over their tie. She too looked up at Jane; she wasn't sure that there would have ever been a day when she was glad to see her, but today seemed to be the day.

Jane couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. They hadn't seen each other in years, and now he was hurt. Her wand dropped from her hand as she scrambled to him, falling to her knees somewhere in the space between and threw her arms around him, a distressed noise escaping her throat. She wasn't too careful, it didn't seem to matter, not now. She could feel the blood staining her shirt front, he was soaked with it.

There was no tie; he had to speak. "I love you," Conor whispered to her, his hand loosely on her back in comfort.

"I love you," she answered automatically, but no less heartfelt. "How -- how bad is it?" She hated how little and young she sounded; a person who'd witnessed the things she had and done what she'd done had no right to such a thing.

"We'll see, I wager," he said, as wry as ever. _You're dying,_ the wolf told him, and he closed his eyes.

Jane chortled; being mortally wounded didn't change some things, she supposed. "I'm glad I got to see you again." Even like this, she'd take it.

He looked up at her, serious and pale for once. "I thought I might not."

"Proved you wrong, didn't I," she said, returning his wry tone. She touched a hand to his forehead. 

Briony could feel the tie slacken, almost fade. She momentarily panicked and wordlessly pulled again. She picked her head up off the floor and laid it back down on Conor’s chest; something she hadn’t done since she was much smaller. She had never wanted to do this again.

Conor looked between his two girls and smiled a bit, and kept a brief grip on his tie with Briony, giving her wolf a gentle nudge before finally closing his eyes.

Jane chewed on her fingernail. The silence was downright oppressive. "Bri?" she asked, hardly able to stand it. 

The older girl shook her head. She didn't trust herself to say anything. That would make it real.

Ben felt as though the rest of them were intruding, but it couldn't be helped. It was undoubtedly the most peaceful end anyone would be going to that particular day. He hugged Sky closer to him, and she squeezed in return as he looked around. David and Jane were both there, but… "Has anyone seen Adam?" he asked quietly.

"Adam's dead," Hati said from the doorway, her voice flat, her gaze set on the ground. "They got him."

"He's in the woods. Not very far in," Jane echoed numbly.

Keith stopped halfway down the stairs, taking in the scene, but more to the point wondering if he'd heard right. He reached to Ben, questioning, _Adam?_ Ben wordlessly touched back to his son and nodded. Keith cleared his throat. "Edward is upstairs, Hati. He wanted me to find you," he told her gently, respectfully.

Jeremy finally spoke up from where he stood, arms crossed tensely over his chest. "We need to start helping the injured," he said. "Remus. Let's do what we can."

Hati looked down at Conor, her stony facade lowering for just a moment before she stepped over his body. He wasn't there any longer, just as Adam no longer was, and she hadn't lost Edward.

Remus nodded to Jeremy, but didn't move until he attempted to touch wolves with Briony. She reacted hardly at all. "Yes, let’s," he responded verbally, but didn’t move.

"Most are out the front," Tom cleared his throat, feeling as though he could do little else but make an attempt at being in control. "If there are dead, line them up along the side of the house. We'll bury them all regardless." He stopped at David, uncharacteristically silent -- not that he was to be blamed for that. "Let's find your brother," he said quietly.

David looked around at the others, then nodded to his father, stuck his hands in his pockets, and started down the steps of the porch.

Ben cleared his throat. "Keith. Let's take him out," he said quietly. Keith nodded and began down the rest of the stairs.

" _Not now,_ " Briony said before she could stop herself. She knew how things should be, what she should and shouldn't do, but none of the rules seemed to apply anymore. 

Ben kneeled on the opposite side of Conor's body from Briony, next to Jane. "Briony, listen to me. It won't be any easier if we do it later rather than now. You just got thrown down the stairs, you have to rest -- "

"I said no." She lifted her head only enough so that she could look Ben Skoll in the eye, still clinging to Conor's chest, with the wolf at the front of her gaze. Neither of them flinched or even moved.

With a silent push for help from Ben, Skylar knelt behind Briony and touched her back. "Bri," she said gently. "He's not there anymore. You know that. Let them take the body outside."

Briony sighed painfully, and after a long moment, she nodded. Still, she could not bring herself to move. She closed her eyes against everything else, so that it was her and the wolf. He wasn’t breathing. He was dead. It didn’t make any more sense and it wasn’t any less real. She fed everything she was feeling to the wolf, not wanting to feel any of it. It seemed like it threatened to kill her, too, from the inside, without bleeding or loss of breath, and she almost wanted it to. The wolf chastised its girl for the thought, and she whimpered at it. She didn’t want a reminder in how pack worked, or to be reminded of all the reasons she should be okay. Conor was dead.

Skylar touched her shoulders, and when she wasn’t met with any resistance, she pulled the younger woman up by her shoulders. Briony wasn’t quite ready to be upright, her head still whirled and throbbed when she moved, and she began to fall backwards. Skylar artfully caught her by the shoulders again, and eased her back into an embrace. She touched her wolf to the girl’s; it seemed to be in a similar condition to Briony herself. “It’s okay,” she murmured, brushing her hair back and holding her like she would have done with Gemma. 

Jane was watching blankly, and Ben caught her attention. "More people might need healing or help, Jane, if you can," he said gently, and nodded to her. She nodded in return with the same look, blinking and swiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper before she went for the back door.

Without further delay, Ben nodded at Keith. "On three," he said, preparing to lift Conor's body from the floor.

Ben and Keith carried Conor's body past, and Remus released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He tried to be philosophical about it all -- everything that had happened, to have a way to process it. But he was coming up with nothing. He glanced at Jeremy.

Jeremy felt Remus looking at him. "I'm going to stay here and fix it," he said. "Do what I can to help settle things." The war was over and all he could think about was his kid. But it couldn't be _over,_ just like that. He couldn't leave the job half-done just because he missed Julia. "We can help heal them. We... we could take them to St Mungo's, even."

"We could. If they'll go," he replied, pushing his hair back. "Some of them we might not have any choice."

"Well. Let's go clean up the mess we caused," Jeremy said, wry, and drew his wand. "Wish I hadn't had to use this."

Remus looked at his own wand. "Seems to me you use what you have available to you," he said idly. "Let's go, out front's a good a place as any to start."

Jeremy nodded and left before he could think twice about what had just happened. The war was over, but the problems had only just begun.


	26. The First Things

_Though the investigations are still pending at the MLE and Sirius Black sits in lock up, heavily guarded, no one is afraid to give the happy news: You-Know-Who has been slain. The war is over._ Nathan Maher, "Tyranny's End," _The Daily Prophet,_ 2 November 1981.

_October 1981_  
The wizarding world was celebrating -- and why shouldn't they. You-Know-Who was somehow dead, vanquished by an infant known only as Harry Potter, dubbed The Boy Who Lived for surviving the Killing Curse. Julia wanted to be skeptical about it; after all, it didn't seem likely that the wizard who had held Britain in a grip of terror for over half of her own life was dead because of a child. But it wasn't what was on her mind. What was on her mind was that it was the second of November, she was officially in her second trimester, and there had been no word from Jeremy or the unified pack. They said that no news was good news, but for her, no news was just no news and waiting made her more anxious than anything else. 

Of course, it was only the second of November. This was why she was trying not to worry, but neither could she fully engage in the excitement of the time. She and the rest of the Curentons, with the werewolves of the Den, seemed to live in a world apart. The news affected them, certainly, but they were still waiting for news of people and a situation that was, in many ways, much closer to them.

After dinner, she had volunteered for kitchen duty with the perpetually energised and fidgeting Gemma. She'd come not long ago, in the last group with Jeremy. "Ready for the dustpan?" she asked Gemma, who was awkwardly steering the broom to sweep debris into a pile.

"Think so," she answered, glancing down at it. She then looked up at Julia, who waited for the request that she felt coming. "Or you could Vanish it." The girl had a fascination with magic being performed that Julia could hardly fathom.

"I could," she conceded, kneeling down to put the dustpan to the tiled floor with a sigh of effort. "Or we could just do it this way."

"Yeah," she echoed, but unhesitatingly and enthusiastically swept the dust into the dustpan.

Jeremy flung the door open hard enough to make it hit the wall and ran into the Den, stopping abruptly in the sitting room the sudden sprint he'd started at the end of the lane. Breathing hard, he looked around before flinging his cloak onto the couch and shouting, "JULIA!"

The dustpan dropped from Julia’s fingers and clattered on the floor as she turned and ran from the kitchen, barely hearing Gemma's indignant "Hey!" She followed her feet, skidding to a halt in the doorway, afraid that she'd been hearing things. But she hadn't. He was _here._ "Jeremy!"

He unabashedly grinned at his wife, as he had probably never been happier to see her in his life. "Oh, there you are. Hi."

"Where else am I supposed to be, you daft prat?" she asked, and once she was sure her knees were going to support her she advanced and threw her arms around him.

He held her for a moment, then touched her hair and face before kissing her. He was _free._ He could be with her. It was impossible, but he was _free._

"I feel like I can breathe now," she confessed once she broke the kiss.

He rested his forehead against hers, taking the moment in before he spoke. "It's over," he said. "The unified pack is disbanded. Fenrir is exiled, along with all his followers, and the Carrows have been fought off." He touched her face. "Some died... but for our cause."

It was selfish to think it, but all she could think about was how he _wasn't_ dead, or worse. She nodded in understanding. "Who?"

Jeremy made himself not think about it as he answered. He'd mourned enough. He couldn't afford to grieve, not now, not when everything was as close to solved as it could be. "Conor," he started wearily. "Adam. The Carrows killed Adam. Wesley nearly killed Edward. About twenty died overall."

Adam. That hit her a bit harder than she thought it would have, and she inhaled sharply. He was one of the few people who she’d seen every time she went to Hati’s pack, and hadn’t tried to kill her. "That many," she said, and she nodded. "But it's over."

"It's over. It's _over,_ " he repeated, and laughed at the absurdity of that. The wolf was settled, Conor and Adam were dead, but it was _over._

She laughed as well and kissed him quickly. "It's -- it's all done then, Jeremy, do you know?"

"...Yeah, that's what I said," he said, startled. "It's over, we figured it all out."

"No, no, no, it's -- don't look at me like I'm crazy, honestly." She was laughing again. It was hitting her all at once, that was all. She took a deep breath and stopped her brain from racing. "It's -- You-Know-Who's gone, Jeremy."

Jeremy did, in fact, look at her like she was completely insane. " _What?_ "

"It's -- just yesterday, everybody knew. It was crazy, you couldn't get anywhere without people celebrating or anything, but I was -- " _I was still worrying_ nearly fell out of her mouth, but she stopped. There wasn't a reason to worry now. "Nobody can really explain how, it's -- quite incredible, really, but they do know that he's dead."

His eyebrows raised, his expression one of pure skepticism as he struggled with whether or not to say what had immediately sprung to mind, but as always, he inevitably had to speak. "Where did you hear this from? The _Ministry?_ You know that Barty Crouch and _The Daily Prophet_ would say just about anything to satisfy the people, is there a body? Who killed him?"

An answer to the last question was likely not going to help her Not Crazy case. "It's in the paper," she allowed evenly, she could feel her cheeks go scarlet. "There are people dead, you can read it all for yourself. It seems a very desperate and complex lie to tell although I have to say that if they have, they've done it very completely. A lot more complete than you'd expect."

Oh. Well, now he felt like an arse. "I -- I'm sorry, I'm an arse, and that's my dad's fault, I believe you," he said quickly. "I'll read every article I can get my hands on. So... it's _all_ done then?" He dared to let a smile show. "The war is over?"

It seemed incredible, even as she wrapped her mind around it. "Yeah," she said, and smiled a little bit back.

"Our kid, born in peacetime," he said, now grinning.

"Like you said," she answered.

And then he had to laugh, again, but this time with genuine amusement. "I was right! I love being right."

She couldn't help but laugh as well, although she was shaking her head, too. "I know that you do!" she said.

"So when am I going to wake up?" he teased, kissing her forehead.

"I... am kind of wondering the same thing," she admitted.

"You are beautiful and amazing and I missed you so much, and I didn't mean to leave you behind, and I'm sorry. And I will never leave you again. I promise," Jeremy swore.

"I... really like the sound of that," she said. She was determined not to be pessimistic at all, because there was finally no reason to be. She embraced him again, hard, and just murmured, "I love you."

"I love you, too." He held her just as tightly, and only released her when he could make himself do so. "Let's... let's spread the good news."

Julia covered her mouth to hide her growing smile. "I haven't said anything," she promised. This was really the first time that she was allowing herself to be excited. "And no one's said anything either, so."

Her excitement was catching. "Really?" Oh, now he couldn't wait. " _Really?_ We actually get to tell them ourselves?" 

"Yeah, really!" she said. "No way I was doing it without you unless I had to."

"Did I mention I love you? I love you. A lot," he said, shamelessly wearing his stupidest grin.

"Once or twice now, yeah," she replied.

"Well come on, let's _go!_ "

"Be nice to me, I'm going to be somebody's mother," she said as he began to pull her out of the sitting room. "They were going to the office, last I knew."

"I hope that doesn't mean what it sometimes means," he said, quite straight-faced.

Julia made a face in return, knowing full well what Jeremy was talking about. "Think we should try back later?"

Jeremy shrugged. "No, Dad and Mum are probably just in there arguing about whatever shit the Minister and Crouch have been saying since this whole thing, we can interrupt that."

"A discussion for the ages, certainly," Julia agreed dryly as they approached the almost closed door.

As it happened, Jeremy was spot on. "Well of course they're minimising the fact that they had absolutely nothing to do with it," Owen said to Brighid. "And it's unsurprising, considering the hot air that Crouch -- " He was interrupted by a short knock before the door swung open. The subject at hand was forgotten, because there Jeremy stood, with Julia. He smiled at his son. "Welcome back."

Jeremy sent them both a broad grin. "Yeah, we won," he said. "Some casualties -- twenty, and that's overall -- but we won, and things are in order now." He was slightly ashamed that the news of the pregnancy now trumped the news of the victory, to him, but it did.

He nodded. "A victory, none the less," he replied, and then really took a careful look between the two of them, growing suspicious. "The last time both of you had that look on your face, you told us you were getting married," he said.

"Oh lord," Brighid said, sounding quite weary as she looked back at the two just as carefully. "What is it now, you two?"

Julia was feeling extremely clever for no particular reason. Although she tried to keep a straight face, she was failing at that. She looked back up at Jeremy, and elbowed him lightly to go ahead.

"Julia's pregnant," Jeremy said, wearing a shameless expression of mixed glee and smugness.

Owen's eyebrows raised. He couldn't help it, he was a little shocked. "You kids work fast," he commented.

"...Not that fast," was the only response Jeremy could think of.

Julia slapped the palm of her hand to her forehead. "No, I'm early in my fourth month now, it -- _seriously,_ " she said.

"Oh good lord," Brighid breathed, staring at the couple with wide eyes.

"Um," Julia started, "... yes. Yes, pretty much," she agreed.

"... B?" Owen asked. He'd never seen her quite so bewildered.

"Mum?" Jeremy echoed, unable to not be concerned. She looked white.

Brighid took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak and swayed on her feet. "Oh good -- " Owen sighed, and scrambled to make sure Brighid wasn't going to drop like a sack of rocks. "Now we really _are_ in a bloody Jane Austen novel."

Julia covered her gaping mouth with one hand, until she found her words. "Your mother just -- " she said to Jeremy, beginning to laugh. Jeremy couldn't hold it back anymore and began to laugh very, very hard.

Julia held on to him with her free arm and glanced to Owen and Brighid. Her hand was still over her mouth but she couldn't help but smile a little. "I -- oh, god, I'm sorry that wasn't really our intention -- " 

Owen couldn't really say he blamed his wife, it had been an eventful week and needless to say that had been the last thing they'd been expecting to hear from their son and daughter-in-law. "Well, I daresay not," he said to Julia, and put his hand to Brighid's face. "B. Brighid," he said.

There was a moment where she shook off her funk before she finally answered, "What?"

"Good morning, sleepy -- Jeremy, stop _laughing,_ you sound like a hyena," Owen started.

"Sorry," Jeremy sniggered.

Brighid blinked a few times. "They aren't joking, then?"

Owen tried to stop the smirk that was spreading across his face, but was ultimately failing in that. "Well. If they are, they've certainly managed to fool you," he said.

"Dad, be nice, she's just come to," Jeremy said, not bothering to hide his own smirk.

"I sometimes wonder why I bother with either of you." Brighid straightened and gave both her smirking boys pointed looks.

"You and me both," Owen grinned, and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "But yes. It would seem as though we are being told the truth."

Julia was not laughing, rather she was flushed and appearing guilty of something. "I'm due on May fifteenth," she added helpfully.

"I'm sorry," Brighid said to Julia, quickly. "That... was the thing I least expected."

"Well. Me too, at the time," she tried a joke, although the thing least expected barely managed to cover it.

"So you've kno -- _oh,_ " she said, sizing up Julia again. "Of _course._ "

Julia looked down at herself, she wasn't showing quite yet, she wasn't sure what made it so patently obvious once people knew. "For sure for about a month or so, yeah."

Owen leaned back against the front of his desk and exhaled in one swift breath. "I'm not sure I'm ready to be a grandparent," he joked, mostly to Brighid.

"Yeah, yeah, we're having a kid, it's great, when is someone going to tell me about the _fall of You-Know-Who?_ " Jeremy asked, almost indignant.

"I imagine we would have gotten there eventually," Owen said, and immediately began digging in the stack on his desk for yesterday's newspaper. "It seems as though You-Know-Who was struck down by none other than an infant named Harry Potter -- here it is," he said, holding it up. "The boys parents were killed, sadly, and that was all Hallowe’en night. Yesterday, Sirius Black -- a Black, so _obviously_ a Death Eater -- exploded a street in Muggle London, killing twelve Muggles and another wizard, supposedly out of grief for his master."

"... I told you it had been a busy couple of days," Julia concluded at Jeremy.

It was as sudden and startling as a slap, forcing him immediately out of his arrogant excitement. "...James and Lily Potter?" he said. "Sirius Black? They're pinning it on _Sirius Black?_ " Remus didn't know. Remus was back with Ben and Hati. "I need to go back. I'll be back," he swore to Julia. "I need to go back."

Julia couldn't help it. She was kind of annoyed. "You need to go back," she repeated flatly.

"One night. I swear! I swear. You can come with me." Jeremy put his hands up.

She took a breath and let it out. "I don't want to be -- yeah. Okay, what the hell. Let's go." She took another breath, willing herself to be caught up in the impetuous decision instead of resisting it.

"They'll be glad to see you. Hey, we can take Gemma back," he figured. "Sky and Rory want to see her, at the very least."

"I'm sure she'll be ready to go," Julia said. Gemma had not been there long, but due to her tendency to talk to anyone about anything, she had become more well-known to her than just about anyone else in the house. She jumped at the small squeal of excitement that came from the corridor, although when Gemma showed her face around the corner, she sighed in relief.

Gemma ran into the room, stopping just short of Jeremy and Julia. "I'm sorry I know I shouldn't've listened but I couldn't help it and I promise I finished in the kitchen, do I really get to go back? We REALLY won?"

Jeremy smiled at her, unfazed entirely as he'd heard her arrive outside the door two or three minutes ago. "We really won. Are you ready to go?"

"I am really ready. I want to see Sky and Rory was supposed to be here when I got here," she said, bouncing lightly and she looked at all the Curentons. "But um... thank you, I just want to go home."

"Sure, all right. We'll see you tomorrow," Jeremy said, nodding to his parents before he turned back to Gemma. "We'll get you back to Ben and Sky, no problem."

"Tomorrow," Owen echoed with a half-smile. "Goodbye, Gemma." 

"Bye!" she cheered, waving, and pulled right on Jeremy's arm, and for good measure pulled at Julia too. A second more would obviously been too much to bear.

"You didn't think it was really all over, did you?" Jeremy teased his wife as they followed Gemma out.

"If I can fall asleep with you," she said with a sigh, "I don't care where the hell we are."

"Who wants to _sleep?_ " Gemma demanded as they left the house, and she shivered when the cold air hit.

Jeremy had to smirk at Julia as he put on his cloak. "Dunno."

"Being pregnant is tiring sometimes." She smirked back. "Okay, grab a hand and get ready to Apparate," she added to Gemma.

Gemma held on to Julia's hand tightly. "I'm ready I'm ready, let's go."

Jeremy glanced back into the Den and flashed one last excited grin before Disapparating.

"Hang on," Julia advised her again. She felt Gemma's small hand close around hers and she closed her eyes, Disapparating behind him with her.

~*~

The defeat of the unified pack by a ragtag bunch of abnormalities amongst the freak show that was werewolf packs had proven a crushing blow, even for Amycus. He supposed that he hadn't invested into it nearly what the halfbreeds had, or even what his sister had, but being on the losing side was not a feeling that Amycus Carrow relished.

Unfortunately, it was one that he was becoming familiar with.

The news of the Dark Lord's defeat had spread through his chosen like a brushfire, quick and deadly, although everyone was afraid to speak it out loud -- if the news proved false and their Lord had thought they'd been disloyal... that was a punishment not even worth contemplating. Some were calm, certain their innocence could be assured either by money, friends in high places, or both. Others mentally prepared their defense, and compiled all the names they could think of in case they were arrested and their necks had to be saved by pointing a finger. Others hid. Amycus wasn't sure which group he would fit into, not just yet, although he was loath to think of it at all -- this was a day they had not planned for.

Copy of _The Daily Prophet_ clenched in his fist -- they thought Sirius Black was one of theirs, if he _had_ been he had certainly been one of the best at hiding it in public -- Amycus Apparated back to the pack house where he had left Alecto with Fenrir's broken pack. Without even bothering to knock on the door as he had before, he pushed the front door open and without looking for his sister, yelled, "ALECTO."

Alecto snapped instantly out of her stupor -- after watching Wesley utterly humiliate another pack werewolf foolish enough to lay down a casual challenge to Fenrir's warrior out of boredom, her brother's shout, panicked as it sounded, was welcome. She stood without hesitation and ran to the door, her wand already in hand in the slight hope that there was a fight to be had. "What?" she demanded upon the sight of him.

He looked at her, struck how typically _Alecto_ her ready position was. "I wish I didn't have to deliver this news to you," he said, "but... it is necessary." He was stalling, damn it all. He straightened the newspaper and held it out, front page facing her.

She stared hard at him first, examining his face for any sign of good news, but she eventually forced herself to look at the newspaper itself. It struck her visibly, forcing her a step back, her hand to her mouth and her face going white. "No," she hissed. "It's _impossible!_ "

He lowered the newspaper. "I wish it were so," he replied. "But it is what it is. Things have fallen apart."

She shook her head, but it made disturbing sense with the little they'd heard, with how they hadn’t been Called, with _everything._ But the Dark Lord was too great for that. "What do we _do?_ "

"It's turned to every man for himself, we can't trust that someone will not name us, if someone who knows us is caught -- or that we are not suspected already," he said calmly, pragmatically, attempting to be logical about it. He'd long ago decided that if he were caught and need go to Azkaban in service of the Dark Lord then so be it, but being caught when he was dead was meaningless. "What we _do_ is simply a matter of what we think need be done."

Alecto crossed her arms over her chest, equally determined to do the pragmatic thing. "If the Dark Lord is _truly_ dead, then all we can do is wait for the manhunt to die down so we can return to our work. We're lucky," she pointed out, wryly. " _No one_ knows where we are."

There was the saying that beggars could not be choosers, but Amycus was not quite ready to concede to beggardom. "No one knows where we are," he repeated, almost inaudibly.

Alecto put her hands on his shoulders. "Think of it this way, Amycus." She spoke just as softly. "We aren't hiding. We're _waiting._ The traitors will betray Him, the worse traitors will betray us, the loyal who are caught will go to Azkaban, but the loyal who _aren't_ caught -- we're waiting. The war won't ever be over until England's free of them, all we have to do is _wait._ "

He breathed deeply and looked at Alecto -- she certainly wasn't wrong, in fact he would have said she made sense. "Waiting, then," he said after a long moment.

"What are we waiting for?" Fenrir asked, as abrupt in his tone as in his arrival. He raised an eyebrow at Alecto as she looked over at him.

Amycus looked at Fenrir, expression blank. "The reappearance of our Master," he said, pointedly, "at such a time when that should occur."

"Reappearance?" Fenrir echoed. That made no sense. Of all the things that could be said about the Dark Lord, no one would ever say his presence was anything but constant. "He has -- "

"They say he's dead, Fenrir." Alecto withdrew from her brother, tucking her wand into her belt. "They say we lost the war."

Fenrir scoffed as she spoke and cut in the second that she looked at him. "War never ends until one side surrenders," he said. "And we'll never surrender."

"Or until one side is all either dead or jailed," Amycus said dryly. "Which is what is likely to happen. And so we wait."

Fenrir snorted. "Typical," he said under his breath, then said more loudly, "You're free to stay or go, as always."

" _Typical?_ " Alecto shot back, tone acidic and look much the same. "What do you mean, _typical?_ "

Fenrir looked between the two with disdain. "I mean that wizards are _spoiled,_ " he explained, patronising. "You take your freedom for granted. Until one side _surrenders_ \-- "

"The war goes on. So tell me, Fenrir, if you knew this all along, why did you allow it to happen to yourself?" Alecto didn't wait to hear his answer. "Amycus, let's continue our conversation somewhere more private."

Amycus meant to hold his tongue, since Alecto had gotten plenty indignant for the both of them (as usual). But he needed to speak, and was careful not to offend -- if Alecto's idea were to be implemented, Fenrir could not be alienated. "Your fate is just as entwined, Greyback. No one knows where we are -- for now." _And I doubt they'd waste space in Azkaban on you,_ he silently added, but otherwise just let the ambiguous qualification hang in the air.

Fenrir shrugged at them. "You need me more than I need you," he answered. "Our fates are entwined, so you're pack. Act as pack because you'll be _treated_ as pack, wands or not."

Amycus thought of it as more of an impasse -- they were in need of a place to hide, and Fenrir needed neither of them to head back to the Ministry of Magic and lead the way back to the pack. Which he was about ready to do, Greyback irked him so. Still, the self-preservation instinct was the stronger. "Very well," he said, and turned back to his sister. "We still need to speak."

Alecto gave him a stiff nod and shot Fenrir a last scathing look before she gestured with her head for Amycus to follow her as she left.

"WESLEY," Fenrir shouted once the tension was even slightly lessened, without giving Alecto a second look. "Gather the pack, I want everyone together, _now!_ "

Amycus wondered with a certain amount of absurdity if that meant them as well, but wordlessly followed Alecto as she had indicated.

~*~

Remus was not normally the sort to actively deny something, but then, he’d never had the kind of news that Jeremy had delivered to him from the rest of the wizarding world. It was too much to believe that James, Lily, and Peter were all dead, and by Sirius’s hand. If Remus were there, part of him thought he might be dead as well.

But it didn’t make any sense. Sirius was foolhardy and impulsive, but he was anything but a supporter of the You-Know-Who. To an outsider, it would make perfect, logical sense. To someone who had known him for years, as Remus had, it looked slightly absurd.

Still, the evidence looked back up at him from the newspaper in black and white. His head whirled with it, and yet his brain managed to wrap around none of it. 

It was far too crowded inside the house for Remus right now, he sat on the front steps with the newspaper open in his hands, reading the front page article again and again, but every time he did so it seemed to morph into something increasingly incomprehensible. He finally gave up and let the paper down, shivering slightly. It had been unseasonably warm in the last week, but that promised to end soon. Remus saw his breath in the morning air and the grass sparkled with frost. He stared blankly at it. 

“I thought you were leaving.”

He jumped out of his semi-catatonic state, and whirled around to see Briony standing there. In a rare first movement, he reached out to her wolf in concern. She accepted the gesture gratefully, but silently, and he looked at her. In lieu of a coat or anything heavier than her thin jumper, there was an old quilt wrapped around her body, her hair hung loose to her waist, her toes curled up against her bare feet, and she showed no signs of having slept; the pack's Electra certainly looked her part. “You should go back inside,” he told her.

“Should,” she echoed, and then shrugged. She couldn't walk past the staircase without remembering Conor's death and the overwhelming anger and grief rising up in her again. She sat down beside him and curled her toes against the bottom of her feet. “You said you were leaving last night after Jeremy came back.”

“I thought I was,” he said reluctantly after a moment. 

“I don’t know what’s keeping you here, then,” she replied.

Remus didn’t have an easy answer for her. He didn’t even really have a difficult answer. “I… have neglected people close to me in order to be here, and… things have happened. I fear there’s a great wrong been done, and there is nothing I can do to undo it.”

She was silent for a moment and finally said, “Well. I suppose if there was something you could do to undo it, then it wouldn’t be a great wrong.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I suppose you’re not wrong about that,” he said with a little bit more of an edge than he had meant to.

Briony heard it, and it hurt her to do so. Even worse than it hurt to touch wolves with him. “It must have been awful news.”

Remus swallowed. “Unbearable,” he said quietly, looking again at the newspaper. 

“About your witch,” she said. Not a question, a mere statement. 

“She’s not my – “ Remus stopped in mid-sentence, and ran a hand over his face. He was so tired right now, it was hard to think even in knee-jerk reactions. Luckily, Briony interrupted before he could try again.

“Not your witch. I know,” she said, resting her chin on her knees. “Just seems to differentiate from all the other witches we know,” she added dryly with a less than subtle glance back at the house.

Remus looked back, too. The house was still quiet, almost eerily so. "So Jane is staying," he said, not so much a question as a statement. Briony nodded. "That's a little surprising."

She looked at her feet, and shrugged. "She's become close with Skoll's pack, and they haven't all been together for ages. I can't say if Patrick's thrilled, but she is staying. We… came to an understanding."

“Mm,” he said, withdrawing. Pack politics had been going practically nonstop in the house as each surviving leader and each new one asserted control over their wolves, attempted to care for the wounded, and keep tempers cool and stress low. It was a tiring way to live. All the eyes that were cast on him were done so in suspicion – Remus, Fenrir’s heir apparent, had not fled, and no one was sure why. The things that had kept him in the pack were self-imposed. Just as Jeremy had said, he did not want to leave things unfinished and in a mess. But he also did not want to face the suspicions of his friends, James, Lily, and the others. So he remained.

Briony let the two of them lapse into silence. Silence had become a rare commodity in the last several years, but it was no relief, weighing too heavily on her. She checked Remus, first visually and then hesitantly by nudging his wolf with hers. He didn’t react at first, but at a second touch, he hesitatingly returned the gesture. He was holding much back, but she could sense the hesitation – confusion, even. “I didn’t expect Jeremy to be back so soon,” she said. “Not for awhile.”

“If at all?”

His tone caught her attention. It was more than a touch bitter, but overall weary. “Not for awhile,” she repeated. “I didn’t think he’d leave Julia for anything, but I didn’t think he’d bring her here, either.”

“Why not, he sent her as a messenger more than once,” he said.

She didn’t have a reply for that, but shrugged instead. “I didn’t know what to expect from you either.”

He could understand that feeling. Remus didn’t know what to expect from himself anymore, either. He’d spent eighteen years being nothing less than upstanding, as he had been satisfied to be. He’d been a model student, a patient, thoughtful boy, who had never been anything but soft-spoken, even shy. A gentle person always fighting for control with the wolf. No one would have thought him a werewolf from just looking at him. 

But these past three years, that had changed. He hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror in months but didn’t need to in order to know that his appearance was just as ragged as anyone else amongst the pack. Lies had become his coin, buying Fenrir’s trust and costing him the people who had always trusted him. It wasn’t an easy realisation to come to, and now with even the charade of privileged heir ripped away from him, he felt dreadfully empty. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve… put a torch to some bridges that shouldn’t have been burned, and now it’s too late.”

His distress was growing, and she could feel it. “Remus, what’s happened?”

He shook his head. “I should go. I don’t know where, but I don’t have a purpose here any longer.”

“You don’t need a purpose to be here. It’s a pack, you’re a werewolf. You belong here.”

“I don’t,” he answered immediately. “I know why you say that, Briony, I do, but I don’t think that it’s true. I don’t.”

“I think that it is, and I know why you say that,” she replied. She moved to face him on the front steps, wincing when her bare feet became exposed to the cold air. “I know it’s not what you were used to, but it’s not what any of us knew before we came to a pack. It’s _better_ than what we’d have with wizards.”

“Everyone is going to look at me and see Fenrir’s heir,” he said, and jumped up. The urge to pace was overwhelming, but his feet refused to move. He turned around and looked down at Briony, who stared back at him. “They don’t know why I’m here. Some of them are so conditioned into being scared of me.” Him. His Father. The Father he’d been welcomed by – no. Fenrir had welcomed something Remus didn’t want to become. A criminal who took children from their families, one who killed and ruled by intimidation. One who didn’t want to just live his life. He looked back up at the house. “This is… I can’t be here.”

She pulled the blanket around her tighter. “Wizards and witches aren’t going to treat you like a person,” she said. “They’re going to treat you like an animal.”

“I’m not in the Registry. That makes it easier,” he somewhat lied.

“People still know,” she said. “They know when you’re not like them. They become frightened of you and don’t want you to be their problem.”

Remus stopped, and just looked at her bleakly. There was no point in arguing ideology with her. “I don’t have another day of fight in me, Bri.”

“Me neither.” The only thing she wanted right now was to figure out how and where to pick her life back up. It wasn’t easy, it seemed like everyone she’d grown up with – Conor, Geoffrey, their entire pack save for a handful, were dead. Conor’s death itself was still too near to contemplate. "You should have let him kill me," she whispered.

"I couldn't have," he said.

"You should have," she repeated.

He finally managed to look away from her, and looked at the front lawn. The sun was just rising over the trees, and he could hear voices in the front room of the house. “I’m going,” he said, with more resolve than he’d felt in a great while. 

She’d figured. If she had been totally honest with herself, she didn’t think he would stick around either. “What do you figure you’ll do?”

“I don’t know.” Godric’s Hollow was going to be a first stop. He needed to see for himself the destruction that had taken James and Lily’s lives and destroyed the Dark Lord – leaving Harry. He looked back at Briony. It seemed like the war had left many parentless. “Maybe I’ll go see my parents,” he managed to say. “I don’t know what’s in front of me.”

Briony was silent for a very long moment. She tried not to show her disapproval. “Are you sure you won’t stay here?” she asked instead.

“Positive, I think,” he said. Her neutral expression was impossible to read, and even her wolf had managed to successfully conceal whatever it was that she’d been thinking. He was too weary to suss it out. But they’d come too far together and spent too much time with one another to leave with that. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” she said immediately and contemplated. “I mean…”

“I get it,” he said. “Take care of yourself, and the pack.” She always did, he knew that, but he didn’t know what else to say to her. There was no goodbye that he could give that was completely satisfying. “Tell them… I don’t know.”

“I’ll make something good up and poetic, pretend you came up with it,” she answered, and made herself smile at him even though she didn’t feel it.

“Okay,” he said, and before he found a reason to not go he turned back and walked away from the pack house. The crisp air filled his lungs, and he breathed it in deeply. There was a strange sort of relief mixed with trepidation for every step he took while he tried to form some kind of coherent plan to follow, at least for the day. _Godric’s Hollow first,_ he decided and once he made it to the boundary of their wards Disapparated. He wasn’t certain that he was ready for whatever was in front of him, but he also knew that he had no choice. He had a life to build, from the ground up.


End file.
